Read How Sweet It Is for Free Online

Quaint, cute. Most people don’t want to know more than that.
    My dad asks about my trip, and when I answer, I omit the fact that I was almost too paralyzed to continue the drive once it started to rain.
    I try to sound cheery and optimistic about beginning my new life in Bryson City. I tell him that the scenery is gorgeous and that the mountain air is almost as fresh as the air in Tifton.
    Dad asks if I’ve seen the train that runs through the town. “Smoky Mountain Railroad has its headquarters in Bryson City,” he informs me like a travel guide would. “The train goes to Dillsboro, and they have gourmet meals aboard some of the trips.” I know he is tossing in the gourmet meal part to try to entice me.
    “Oh?” I think I recall a set of tracks near the Methodist church along the steep, windy road up to this cabin. Trains do not impress me the way they do my father. He will stop whatever he’s doing whenever he hears a train whistle or sees a train coming down the tracks. He says trains remind him of his years as a hobo, but I know he’s only teasing about that.
    Then my mother is on the phone, asking how long the trip took, if I have food to eat, if I took my vitamins this morning, and would I like her to send me some pickled pig’s feet? I have never liked pig’s feet, and I don’t know why she doesn’t remember that. Perhaps she thinks that for some reason they will taste more agreeable to me at this elevation. I expect to hear her tell me to sit up straight, and as we talk, my shoulders do rise and I stick out my chest.
    “Sit up straight,” my mother once told me when I was growing up. “You don’t want to become hunched over. My aunt Lavonna Dewanna was such a hunchback.”
    I never heard the rest of her reminiscing because I couldn’t believe that anyone would be named Lavonna Dewanna. I asked if that really was her name, and my mother said, “Yes, but we called her La De.”
    “La De!” I laughed so hard that I rolled off the bed. I was only six, but after seeing my mother’s expression, I knew that I would never joke about her aunt La De again. Apparently, Mom didn’t think there was anything funny at all about her aunt’s name.
    When I was in the hospital, sitting for any length of time, especially with my shoulders squared, was difficult, but Mom’s words rung out sharper than my pain. Sit up straight, Deena.
    I view my reflection in the mosaic mirror that hangs in the upstairs loft bedroom. I have no recollection of having climbed the staircase to the second story; my mother’s voice often takes away my own reminiscences.
    “Is there a washer there? How about a dryer?”
    Mom’s questions make me feel like I’m a child. I relax my jaw, trying not to grit my teeth, and then slowly answer her questions in the affirmative. I can tell that she is pleased to know her daughter will be able to wash and dry her clothing. When Mom and I hang up, I meander around the loft, and then make the bed, pulling the lavender quilt over the sheets. Someone made this quilt; I finger the fabric as I study the stitches. I wonder if my grandmother, Grandpa Ernest’s wife, was a quilter. She died before I was born, and I know almost nothing about her.
    Downstairs, in the sunny living room, a scarlet quilt drapes over the back of the overstuffed sofa, and I note the pattern of leaves. Jeannie quilts and has tried to interest me, but I can’t say I really care to learn. There are things in life you hope to do some day—like ride in a hot air balloon or go to Paris—and then there are things that you know you will never do because, in a nutshell, the desire isn’t there.
    On the wall behind the sofa are two pictures. The one that catches my eye is a framed print of a woman in a gold and deep-red kimono. The cloth of the kimono looks shiny and smooth. A bright fan the color of cherry blossoms covers the right side of the woman’s delicate face. I wonder why she has the fan in that position. Perhaps the