SPRING CREEK
By MaryJane Plemmons-Dorr (1978)
On a humid, foggy morning in July 1978, my father and I began a daylong journey from Adrian, Michigan, to Asheville, North Carolina, for a Plemmons family reunion. I was about to embark on a twelve hour trip with a man I hardly knew anymore, a man with whom I shared little in common. This trip would be followed by four tedious days with people who were, for the most part, complete strangers to me. My father, then 70 years old, could not make the trip alone. I agreed to take time from work so he would not have to miss the reunion.
The drive was arduous, the air stifling, the scenery boring, and the car seats were uncomfortable. All I could think of was how badly my back would ache, and how sunburned my left arm would be at day's end. We weren't even out of Ohio, when I began to question whether this was above and beyond the call of a daughter's duty. Good heavens, we'd only traveled four hours. Then things began to change.
We crossed the Great Ohio River. The grinding traffic snarls and perpetual construction zones of Dayton and Cincinnati were now behind us. We were in Kentucky with the rolling green hills and white fenced thoroughbred farms. God, it was beautiful. My heart began to beat more quickly and excitement began to well in my stomach. We crossed the Cumberland Mountains, entered Tennessee, and climbed a great mountain into Jellico. The rolling hills were now statuesque mountains. The scenery was breathtaking, and I forgot my sore back and reddening arm. I was so busy looking around that I don't know how I managed to keep the car on the road. We were on the last leg of our journey. Four more hours passed and I had barely noticed.
Slightly less than eleven hours later, we entered "The Tar Heel State," North Carolina. We were in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains, Pisgah National Forest, and the Blue Ridge. The air had cooled and the sun had begun its descent to its home behind the mountains. It was then that I saw a change in my father. He was driving and I was in a constant state of motion, looking first out one window, and then turning to look out another. He said, "You see that mountain over there? That's Bald Mountain. That one way over there? That's Beaucatcher. God, how we walked over and through all of these mountains. I looked, really looked, at my father. He wasn't in the car; he was miles and years away. "You see over there? Bud and I pushed an old Model T up that mountain in the rain. He had more trouble with that car. If you met anyone on the those roads, one of you had to go back until the road was wide enough to pass." His weathered face was alive, and his brown eyes were laughing; his whole body was animated. For a short while, my father took me back with him in time.
As we approached Asheville, the bustling city life brought us back to reality. I saw homes where my mother and father lived as children. Tired and hungry, we finally arrived at my Aunt's house. After an evening of reminiscences, chatter, and fun, I went to sleep to the sound of a small stream tripping over stones in the quiet of night. The excitement of the day was now a dreamlike, vision. The tranquility of the cool, calm mountain air lulled me to sleep. My back? What back? -
The following morning began what was to be a busy day, which culminated with a huge dinner and reception at Grove Park Inn and Country Club, a magnificent four-story edifice, built completely from the stone of Sunset Mountain which stands majestically behind it. There was a picturesque, view from the balcony, massive fireplaces in the main room, and more Plemmons than I ever knew existed. My father has seven brothers and sisters, and they were all there with children, grandchildren, and/or pictures in tow. After a delicious meal, the family showed pictures and told stories of their childhood and their parents. I had never met my grandparents, but when the evening was over I felt that I had known them all my life.
The agenda for the following day was a picnic at Spring Creek, which is near the area where my father grew up, and was the site of a log cabin retreat that had been built called "Seldom Inn." It was also the home of the small cemetery where my grand and great-grandparents are buried. We were only a heartbeat from the pulsing city. A caravan of Plemmons: brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins alike, began the rollicking journey up Haywood Mountain, and down Haywood Gap, on roads that seemed reminiscent of a roller coaster. This land was much as it was 70 years before when my father was small. Except for wider roads and utility lines, its beauty was untouched. This land was simple, this land was pure, and this land was home. The steep curves almost welcomed the sight of the eight children of Laxton Mallie, and Minnie Elizabeth Plemmons: "Where have you been?" the placid mountains asked. "Tell me, where have you gone?" the pacific creeks murmured. "Will you stay?", the unruffled evergreens whispered. The gaps almost sang out "Here comes that Plemmons gang!" I was in complete awe. The Mountains whispered to me, "Come, we'll tell you a story."
We arrived at our destination, a small stream at the base of a gap called Spring Creek. At the top of a small hill I stepped out of the car and saw what had to be God's most perfect tree. The tree's long, sturdy arms sheltered the small cemetery and shaded us from the sun. I walked to the far side of the hill and came upon my great-grandfather's grave, which overlooked the entire mountainside. I stood there alone. I almost heard his voice say, "I know you are here. I know you are mine." I remained there for quite a while and absorbed the scenery. I could see so much. The mountains rolled out as far as the eye could see. I thought I would never take in enough of the life of the pines and cedars that populated the slopes like a plush green carpet. It was a symphony of green and blue, an orchestration of highs and lows, a cacophony of birds and insects, and a harmony of wind and leaf. I stood there for what seemed like hours. Actually, it was only moments before my father came to me and broke my reverie and told me about those people, now marked with a simple headstone. I spent the afternoon with my family and developed a love for people, who until then had only been names to me.
As all good things must end, so did our reunion. The activities came to a close and we said good-bye. On a foggy but cooler day, Daddy and I began our daylong journey back to Michigan. I was about to embark on a twelve-hour journey with my Daddy, a man for whom I had found a new respect and a special love. I had found a heritage and a family. As we drove back through the mountains, I was almost in tears. When the mountains were just a remote vision through the rear window, I heard them say good-bye and I promised I would come back home soon.
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Mary Jane (Plemmons) Dorr, born in 1954, is the youngest daughter of Dan Lewis (1908 -1990) and Mary Emma Plemmons (1909 -1984). She is the sister of Anne Elizabeth (Plemmons) Vettes (1931), Bruce Laxton (1938) and Dan Lewis, Jr. (1946-1986). Dan, Sr. was born and was raised in Spring Creek, and Asheville, NC. Mary Emma (Williams) was born at Rutherfordton, NC, and was raised there and in Asheville. Dan, Sr., Mary Emma and Dan, Jr. have all expired, and are buried at Palmyra, Michigan, near Adrian, in the southeast corner of the state, where they lived their last days.