Heritage Drives

by Georgia Curtis Ling @GeorgiaCLing

It was one of those frantic mornings. I was treating the scenic, unfamiliar back road like a speedway, entirely focused on making it to the grocery store. I was completely disconnected, caught up in the stress of the day—until I saw it. The unexpected sight brought me back to reality.

I slammed on the brakes as the schoolhouse appeared—a ramshackle one-room relic of a different era. It looked neglected and miserable; the glass had been pummeled out by rocks, leaving behind lethal teeth of glass that glinted in the morning light. The bell tower stood as a silent, hollow skeleton; its wood stripped of almost every flake of white paint. Nearby, the porch had finally succumbed to gravity, collapsing into a tangle of tall weeds where a few cows now lingered, placidly grazing on the overgrown grounds.

My foot lifted, the car slowing to a crawl as an unseen gravity pulled me toward the ruin. I sat there, engine idling, as my imagination began to breathe life back into the rot, stitching the schoolhouse back together in my mind’s eye.

The air suddenly shimmered with the phantom echoes of laughter. I saw girls in pigtails clutching homemade dolls, shrieking as they chased away mischievous boys. Nearby, the sharp crack of a hand-carved bat echoed across the field as boys in patched overalls and scuffed, thin-soled shoes rounded the bases. Then, the vision shifted to the porch: a tall, elegant teacher—her hair pinned into a prim, severe bun—stepped out and swung the brass bell, its clear chime cutting through the afternoon to signal the end of play.

A frantic clatter of boots hammered against the wooden planks as the children scrambled to their desks. Then, skidding around the corner, came a wiry boy with a mop of dark curls and eyes as bright as the morning sky. A simple length of twine cinched his waist, holding up trousers that had seen better days. He moved with purpose, his small arms piled high with the seasoned wood needed to feed the potbellied stove against the autumn chill. My heart caught in my throat—I didn’t need to guess who he was. I was looking at my father.

That dilapidated relic, standing three thousand miles from my Appalachian roots, became a portal. Suddenly, I wasn’t in a car on a strange road; I was a child again, buckled into the backseat during those dreaded Sunday afternoon drives, with my father at the helm of a journey into his own past.

Packed into a station wagon like sardines, the cast of characters consisted of a family of six and a slobbering dog convinced she was the favorite child. We weren’t thrilled about the miles, but the certain hope of a post-trip ice cream kept us from a total backseat mutiny.

As we wound through the countryside, Dad pointed out the landmarks of his life—the schoolhouse he’d trekked to each day, his actual birthplace, the swimming hole he’d shared with siblings and friends on stifling summer afternoons, and finally, the childhood church and surrounding cemetery holding our family’s history.

The ice cream was just the hook; the real payoff came much later. Little did I know that as the countryside blurred past, we were actually witnessing the blueprints of our own lives. Those heritage drives were Dad’s way of mapping out his heart for us. I saw his faith, his vision, and a love for family that transcended time. Without even knowing it, my father was building the world and setting the stage for my novels—a tribute to my deep affection for Appalachia and its people.

While we started the trip for the ice cream, we finished it with a blessing that has lasted a lifetime.

“Indeed, my heritage is beautiful to me.” Psalm 16:6

Born and raised in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Georgia Curtis Ling holds dear the three inherent mountain values of faith, family, and the land. As an inspirational storyteller, Georgia’s latest novel, But There Were Signs is a suspenseful contemporary bestselling Christian thriller set against the backdrop of the Appalachian region and exposes an evil that lurks in the shadows of a small town. Visit Georgia on Facebook under Georgia Ling or on her website at www.georgiacurtisling.com.