Deep in the Recesses of Your Heart

I grew up in the hills of Northwest Georgia, but from an early age my heart was in the Great Smoky Mountains. I pressed my nose against the glass of the Ole Smoky Candy Kitchen in downtown Gatlinburg before I could read. It was a tradition for my siblings to have a picture made with a Native American in Cherokee. While many of my classmates shared stories of sandy beaches and jellyfish stings, I talked about bear sightings, pancake breakfasts and swimming in the pool at the old Virgil’s Motel just outside of downtown Gatlinburg. This was my family vacation every year. I didn't see the ocean until I was 27.

I am one of thousands of daughters with no ties to the Smoky Mountains except for the few glorious days a year I was privileged to spend there. But you cannot tell the story of my family without memories of those familiar places we only saw once or twice a year. After losing my parents within three months of each other last year, the devastating fire just two days after my dad’s death felt like another loss. 

My mother was very ill the last years of her life, and in 2015 we took the entire family to our beloved mountains one last time. She laughed at one of her favorite places—The Comedy Barn—and took in the beauty of the mountains. My parents weren’t outdoor enthusiasts, but they loved the drive through Cade’s Cove and the anticipation of seeing a bear in the wild. They never went without bringing their children some type of gift from their trip. A quilt from Dolly’s. Some fudge from one of the shops on the strip. And always taffy from the Ole Smoky Mountain Kitchen. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mother I had lost my taste for taffy in my teens. I just accepted her gift and shared it with people who did love it. 

For most of our vacations, we stayed at family-owned motel three miles from the Gatlinburg Parkway. Virgil’s Motel, run by Virgil and Mattie Trentham, closed in 2006 and a bank and shopping center are there now. I suspect my dad loved the motel because of the cost and the large room that could accommodate our family of six. 

My siblings and I hoped to take my parents back to the Smokies one last time, but sickness and death would not wait. Our only consolation is our faith. After my mother’s death, we cried at the thought we never got to take her back. But as someone said, “She has a view of those mountains we have never seen.”

When we first heard of the fires, we learned they were near the former site of Virgil’s Motel. My three siblings and I watched and prayed first for the safety of those in the mountains and for protection of places we held dear to our hearts. 

As with any breaking news story, conflicting reports emerged. My sisters and I made frantic phone calls.

“I hear the Alamo is gone.”

“What about the bank where Virgil’s was?”

“The strip is gone.”

When the smoke cleared many of our fears were realized. Fourteen people lost their lives. Some of them, like my family, made the Smoky Mountains their vacation destination every year. Some were locals who just couldn’t get away. More than 2,400 structures were destroyed and 17,000 acres were charred. 

We heard downtown Gatlinburg was largely intact, but we had no idea of the scope of the fire. None of us had plans to visit in person.  After months of caring for our parents, I didn’t have the heart to return anytime soon and face the memories. 

But I had a milestone this year. For my 50th birthday I wanted to wake up in mama’s mountains. I planned it, then worried it wouldn’t happen after I was laid off from my job a month before our scheduled trip. Even if I had not been able to pull it off, friends and family were on standby to help. This was a trip I had to make, they said. 

Then came the rain—lots of it. I moved our trip ahead a day in hopes of catching some sunshine and blue skies. My husband and I made our journey and arrived in the rain the day before my birthday. Since anything outdoors was impossible, we decided to go to the Comedy Barn just as my parents did many times.

The last time I was at the theater was almost exactly two years before. I am a “leaker” and my eyes started tearing immediately after sitting next to a fellow traveler from Louisiana. I told him the story of my parents and our numerous vacations there. Then I became enthralled by his stories of home and travels. That’s what happens in the mountains. You forge bonds with people you will never see again. 

During the show, I looked around and saw people laughing until they cried. I wondered if I was the only one crying because I knew how much my parents would have been laughing. 

The next day there was no question as to where we would go. We drove past the Parkway to the site of the old Virgil’s Motel. After seeing traces of the fire in downtown Gatlinburg, we were hit with the sight of burned out shells of buildings and acres of scorched earth. I stopped to take pictures while motorists watched and probably wondered what I was doing. I was surprised at how unaffected I was—no leaking. 

After seeing some of the devastation up close, my husband and I drove to Cade’s Cove. My parents loved the scenic loop, and because it was a Monday we were not behind a particularly slow procession. We stopped at times for pictures and to study the churches and cemeteries. Because it was April we never spotted a bear. And again—no leaking. 

My mother had another love—cooking shows. Often when I would have dinner at their house she would be watching Paula Deen’s show. Deen’s Pigeon Forge restaurant was not finished when my mother made her last trip to the Smoky Mountains. She was disappointed she couldn’t go there. I decided I would eat there in her honor. 

I have found it to be true that you never really get over losing someone. I still want my paternal grandmother’s tiny biscuits even though she left us when I was 11. Grief hides in the recesses of your heart. After almost 24 hours of no leaking, grief showed up when our waitress asked us our dessert choice. If only one of my father’s favorites, peach cobbler, had not been on the menu. I may be one of the few people who has cried over peach cobbler.

I was crying so hard that my husband spoke with the waitress. 

“It’s her birthday and she lost her parents last year,” he told her. 

She brought me a picture signed by Deen that said “Happy Birthday.”

Mama would have loved that.