My family lived up on Roan Mountain, and in the surrounding tiny towns and communities of the area, up along the border of North Carolina and Tennessee.

 They were a sturdy stock that originally came from the hills of Scotland, Ireland, and the lands nearby. The beautiful rolling ridges of the Roan must have stirred something down deep in their souls and awakened them. Perhaps the area reminded them of the rolling hills of the home that they had left behind. They settled down and began a new life in the shadow of the beautiful Roan.

 Some of my folks were preachers. They were God-fearing circuit riders that rode over the rugged mountains to spread the gospel to those that needed to hear it. Some of my kin were just about meaner than one-eyed snakes. These are the ones that some folks even called – devils. But, no matter if they were saints or sinners; they were all mine.

 I began my search to find out more about the people that I come from, and it eventually led me to want to write it all down. I felt a need to preserve the stories that had been told to me by my father, just as they had once been told to him, by his.

 I truly believe that each generation has its own “story-teller” or “keeper of the legends.” I think that somehow, I was chosen for my generation.

 My father told me once that I would write the story down, one day. So, as he once foretold, the storytelling has begun. So come on over and pull yourself up a chair. Get yourself a tall, cold glass of sweet tea.

 We may just be here awhile. Yes, I think that we just might….