Memorial Day, 1995

Twenty-five years ago, Memorial Day, 1995, Barry and I moved away from our dream home in Albany, Georgia and settled into the house where I live today in Clay County NC. It was to be a temporary home until we sold our house on the farm where I had grown up. 

What a day it was for me. My emotions were in turmoil. Leaving the only home we had ever had together and moving hundreds of miles from family, had me feeling as though I were being ripped apart.

We had always thought we wanted to live in the mountains near a lake. We found the perfect place.  We could see Lake Chatuge from our upstairs deck. We could sit at our dining table and see Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia on the far side of the lake.

The only problem was the living area of the mountain house was 1/3 of the space in our Georgia home that we both loved so much. The living/dining area was not as big as the main living area where we had held parties and family gatherings for two decades enjoying the house we had saved for and dreamed about. Barry had lived in California and was set on having a redwood house with a modern design. That was fine with me. Our friend, a young architect, hungry to do something creative, agreed to design the house at a price we could afford. 

He was happy with the house and said the only problem was the location. He would like to have had it in a ritzy neighborhood in the city. We loved the location in the woods on the back side of the farm my father bought in 1942. 

Windows surrounded the downstairs so we felt like we were a part of the forest. From inside I saw many wonders of nature like a rabbit-mating-dance from my kitchen window. Birds went about their daily lives unaware that I was just feet away watching them. Squirrels played and large turtles passed through our yard.

Oscar P. Opossum visited our patio every night. Barry named him, and we loved watching him eat the large insects that were drawn to our porch lights.

We had a stable and two horses we often rode in the woods and on the trails around the farm. We loved country living and all the freedom and privacy it provided. 

So, it was natural that we wanted something similar when we moved to the mountains. Our little house is surrounded with woods, wildlife and still only five miles from emergency care if needed. We did not want to be living high on a mountain where snow in winter would prevent an ambulance reaching us should we call. Barry had recovered from open heart surgery while we lived on the farm, and his health was uppermost in my mind when we chose a place to live in the Appalachians. 

The house was fine, but it was the view that sealed the deal. Little did we know that this house would become home for the rest of our years together. Barry was never happier than sitting on the deck in the quiet of the evening listening to the sounds of the woods as the sun set over the lake. 

First Christmas, 1995, at our mountain house

I was asked, after he died, was I going to sell my house. Isn't it hard to live with all those memories there? No, it is wonderful to live with all the memories of our lives together in this house. His pictures are prominent in my living room. His cowboy hats have their own special place in the hallway. His first guitar rests on a stand where I see it every day. When I have guests we often talk about Barry and how we loved him and still miss him. But no one cries. We laugh at his great sense of humor, at the things he did and said. We remember him with joy.

Twenty-five years ago I had no idea what this house would hold for me, for us. We lost two beloved dogs here, Kodi and Rocky, and we lost our sweet south Georgia cat, Tiger who brought in live rabbits and chipmunks, turned them loose and watched me scramble to get them back outside. 

Tiger, our south Georgia bob-tailed cat

We turned a two bedroom, two bath little house into a three bedroom, three bath home with my writing studio in the finished daylight basement. For ten years I taught and invited writers to teach there. That was what helped me get through those early years of mourning. Now I spend most of my time upstairs but plan to use the studio space for something I will enjoy. Maybe I will paint again or take up sewing. Who knows what will grab me in the coming years.  

I hope to stay in this house for the rest of my days. I continue to like the privacy, the beauty of my little acre, and this very peaceful neighborhood. I love my nearest neighbors who are like family to me. My best friends are in this area, my writing community is here and, even though I differ from most of the natives in my psychological values and perspectives, the people are good folk and I appreciate them. When I want to get away, I just head down to Roswell Georgia where my sister lives, and we have some family time. 

Gay C. Moring