Curves Ahead

My husband in front of his Grandparent’s old cabin. He was like a kid again that day!

There’s been so much going on since the Holiday’s that I’ve got to start all the way back at Thanksgiving, but trust me I’ve got plenty of interesting stories to share. šŸ˜‰

This Thanksgiving, my husband and I met my parents in Ellijay, Georgia instead of going all the way to Kentucky. Ellijay just happened to be almost exactly the half way point for both of us. My husband was excited because his grandparents used to own a cabin in the mountains around Ellijay and it was always one of his favorite places to visit.

He’s told me countless stories about Ellijay and the time spent with his family and grandparents there. He told me about panning for gold with his grandfather in the crystal clear streams, and the little cave they found in the side of the hill below his grandparents cabin.

It was a wonderful time between the relaxed atmosphere of our cabin on top of a mountain and the wildlife that would almost eat out of my husband’s hands. It was one of the few vacations that I actually came back energized rather than depleted.

BUT there were some rough moments. The cabin and the surrounding area is nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the roadsĀ View December 29 2013 023.jpg in slide showcareen and hug the edges of the mountains. I was petrified. I never expected that reaction considering I’ve lived in the “hills” (In parentheses because my husband argues they are indeed mountains) and know how to drive on those same little roads. As a teenager I didn’t think anything about going 60 mph around a sharp curve. It was exhilarating, but I’ve been tamed by the flatness of South Georgia and the straight line driving. The occasional curve you do encounter down here that warrants a reduced speed sign would get a laugh from anyone from home.

But these curves even made the roads I grew up with look like a joke (I don’t even want to think about what roads in the Rockies look like). Lets just say that there were at least two curves to the cabin itself that the GPS called “turns” because they were so sharp.

So every time we left I would feel a since of panic, picturing our vehicle falling off the road somewhere (there were no shoulders by the way…pavement ended at the edge of the mountain). I could only hope the trees would stop us from tumbling to the valleys below.

My Dad is a pro mountain driver, in fact, too much of a pro for me. He would take the curves with dizzying speed as if it were second nature (which it was), but I couldn’t handle it. The funny thing is the first time I rode with my Dad down the mountain I screamed, “Tyler! Slow down!” My husband, who was sitting in the back seat corrected me, “You mean Dad”.

“Dad, slow down!” I said, correcting my statement, but it was no use. The damage had been done and hadĀ I provided ample evidence Ā to confirm to my parents that I yell at my husband when he drives. To the satisfaction of my husband, there was no acting sweet and denying that I would ever do such a thing after that. šŸ™‚

But this isn’t even where things get really interesting… this is just the prologue to the main story. Things get really interesting when I get behind the wheel. This adventure is to be continued…


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