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In a second he was up and off. We followed him through the living room and the dining room, set with round tables, each with a lazy Susan at its center, and into the small office. Then, keys in hand, we were off to our room.
The inn's rooms, over thirty years old, showed their age—but the simple rustic character was appealing and relaxing. No TV or radio or phone—just the basics: an antique bed and chest of drawers, comfortable wing chairs, and a nice bathroom. The Hemlock Inn was not designed for guests to just stay put in their rooms. The days were for the hills.
I was unpacking our belongings and Barb was changing Kate's diaper when we heard the ringing of a bell. "Must be the dinner bell," Barb commented, almost to herself. She was humming and Kate was smiling. I sat down to wait for them to finish as the rays of the setting sun streamed in through the screen door, mixing with the evening breeze to rustle my wife's hair. My soul smiled.
The dining hall was packed. Each of the seven tables had eight chairs around it. John was at the door, greeting each arrival and directing them to their assigned table. Seating and eating was strictly family style—with John arranging and rearranging the inn's guests at each meal—guaranteeing a variety of conversation with people from all over the country. At our table alone were folks from New York, Atlanta, and Oregon—all escaping to the hills for rest and relaxation—some to read, some to think and meditate, some to hike. There was also a couple from Bryson City named R.P. and Sally Jenkins.
"Ella Jo's cooking is known far and wide," chimed R.P. "We like to come up here every chance we can—at least when John and Ella Jo have an opening at their table." He laughed, and John Shell beamed.
As we were gathering at our tables and meeting our meal mates, the young servers were bringing out a smorgasbord of delicacies on large platters and in large bowls. I was curious as to why no one was sitting—everybody was standing and greeting each other—it was almost like being at a family reunion. But I wasn't left to wonder for very long. At the ping of a small bell, everyone turned to Mr. Shell. At his side was a woman, about the same age but much shorter and rounder—and her smile was radiant as an angel's.
When the crowd had quieted down a bit, John began, "Ella Jo and I want to welcome you newcomers to Hemlock In which is known for having the most beautiful innkeeper's wife east of the Mississippi!"
He looked down at her and smiled, and her blush could have warmed the room. She grinned and whispered out loud "Actually, east of California," and laughed easily and gracefully.
"I agree," he stated emphatically. "May we say grace?"
We all bowed our heads. Now I must tell you that this only made it easier to inhale the delicious aromas wafting up from the table. I was secretly hoping for a very short prayer—although surprised that there would be one at all. Not that I minded prayer—it was a regular part of my life, at least before meals. As a family we always said grace before a meal. It's just that doing so at a public dinner was a new and somewhat uncomfortable experience for me. However, after only a line or two, something happened.
"Our heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this beautiful day and this lovely location," John prayed earnestly. "We thank Thee for our health and for the activities of this day. And now we bow to thank Thee for this bountiful provision that Thou hast laid before us this evening. Bless the hands that prepared it for us. Bless it to our nourishment. And bless us to Thy service. May our sleep tonight be both sweet and restful. We ask these things in the wonderful name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord."
During the prayer I had been instantly taken back to my paternal grandparents' home in Memphis, Tennessee. We held hands as we sat at the table, and my grandfather, a Pullman conductor for the Illinois Central railway's "La Louisiane," would pray, "Father in heaven, we thank Thee ..." In John's voice and words I could hear my grandfather—and the feelings of warmth and nostalgia were overwhelming. As he prayed, so did I—thanking God for the blessing of a family, chock-full of memories and traditions.
I was brought back to reality when the entire room chanted in unison: "Amen."
Before the amen's echo bounced back from the walls of the dining room, chairs were scraping on the wooden floor as the guests seemingly dove into their places and began to dig into the hearty and delicious Southern meal: fried chicken (of course!), perfectly seasoned with a thick, crunchy breading; green beans with ham hocks and just the right saltiness; ham that fell off the bone and could easily be cut with a fork; silky-smooth, creamy potatoes with brown and sawmill gravies; three types of salad with a variety of made-from-scratch salad dressings; candied carrots; at least three types of freshly baked bread, and a basketful of steaming-hot yeast rolls with local clover and wildflower honey butter and a wealth of other delectable homemade toppings and jams. Barb teased me that my eyes were as big as the countless platters.
During dinner we found out that R.P. and Sally were active in the leadership of Arlington Heights Baptist Church and that R.P was a past chairman of the hospital board of trustees. It finally dawned on me that this was not such a coincidence that the Jenkinses just happened to be here for dinner and seated at our table.
As Kate happily munched on a drumstick and mashed potatoes, we visited with a tableful of new friends. Most had been at the inn for one- or two-week visits, year after year, for many years. We learned that true newcomers, such as us, were uncommon—a rarity, in fact.
The dinner discussion was the typical talk of the day—where people went, what they did, what they discovered. Questions to the newcomers centered on who you were, where you were from, and why you had been so foolish as to never have visited the Hemlock Inn before. Upon discovering that we were considering this little hamlet as our home, a cacophony of oohs and aahs circled the table, peppered with comments like, "I'd sure move here if I could," and, "You sure are lucky to pick a place like this," or, "Honey, see what I told you? Young professionals 'are' moving out here." These comments were an encouragement to us and increased our rapidly growing feelings of fondness for the area.
(continued on the next page)
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