Hillbilly Heaven–that’s where I’m spending my last bit of vacation before the summer’s over.


hillbilly shack


I’m here.

Hillbilly heaven.

  1. Pine trees and parts of the roads sliding down into the gulley.
  2. Junk cars and a big jar of juice sitting by the edge of the trees.

Mighty neighborly of the locals. Considering it was pitch dark and I only saw the jar because of my high beams, I didn’t stop.

Before we headed into the never never land of red necks, Mom warned me –

  • Watch out for deer
  • Watch out for mudslides
  • Watch out for hillbillies in big vehicles with tangled seat belts and sweaty bodies.

Live bodies, that is. This is the mountains. Not the Mexican border.

Take note.  There’s no moonshine in these hills.  My hillbilly brother is a preacher man.  My brother in law a song leader and pillar of the church. Kind of hard on the womenfolk.  They need a snort now and then just to survive. 

Not happening.

They will have to settle for a few trips to paradise every once in a while. I think you city folk know it by another name. Wal-Mart.

Good news.

I called Dennis. That’s my husband. Told him I made it here safely.

Now, safe in these parts can be translated as  –

  1. No tires shot off vehicles while turning off the highway (Not a fun experience. Ask my preacher brother.)
  2. No horses dropping dead in the mid-stride while being ridden down the back roads. (Who would want to remember that day?)
  3. No windows blown out by artillery on the final approach to the Favor ranch. (Don’t even ask for details on that one.)

Now, I have to end this record of my arrival to Ponderosa Terrace Estates. Motto – if there is running water around it’s gotta have feet.

But, hey, don’t cry for me.

I’ve got

  • fresh air.
  • stunning lakes.
  • opportunity to chew the fat (that means conversations, Richard Simmons) with my extended family that I have not seen in two years.

Whoo Hoo!

Forget Wal-Mart. I’m in paradise.

See you tomorrow!

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