Lacon Mountain

The past few mornings, the air has been cool here on Lacon Mountain. I learned that was the name of this beautiful hillside where we live when Kenny came by to visit one day last week. He’d heard the buzz of chainsaws and the crash of tree limbs landing with ground-shaking thuds, and his curiosity got the best of him.

“I figured you was doin’ something major over here,” he said. “Gettin’ rid of a few trees, huh?”

John stepped over to the open driver’s side door of Kenny’s pickup where Kenny stood with one booted foot propped on the running board and his left arm on the open window of the door. The two men began to chat about the tree removal work as I made my way across the gravel driveway to say hello.

During the course of the conversation, I asked Kenny what the mountain where we lived was called, and he replied, “Lacon Mountain.”

Oddly enough, when John and I visited the property appraiser’s office to file for our homestead exemption, we learned that we actually live in Lacon, Alabama—even though our mailing address is Falkville. I’m not sure how that works, but I have done a little reading on Lacon Mountain, and it’s fairly interesting. I’ll elaborate in this and other posts.

John and I first learned how locals pronounce “Lacon” from the young woman who issued our Alabama driver’s licenses. Her Southern accent was thick as she smiled and said, “There’s two ways a’sayin’ it. Some people pronounce it “La-KON” and some say “LAY-kin. It really don’t matter.”

I’ve been saying the latter, for what it’s worth.

As I sit here atop our formerly landscaped and once functional waterfall—no, we don’t plan to restore it, although I wish we could—I am watching the hummingbirds at my two feeders and enjoying the coolness of this peaceful morning. The temperature climbs into the 80’s later in the day, but this unseasonal cool feels like a tease of autumn coming soon. I love it.

In the distance I can hear traffic passing on the Interstate, a reminder that despite our remoteness, civilization is never far away. If I close my eyes and concentrate on the sounds closer to me, I might imagine I were in an arboretum filled with hundreds of species of birds, all heralding the day. A tufted titmouse flutters past my head so close, I can almost sense the slight rush of air.

It’s overcast this morning, and one of the most striking sounds that has caught my attention is the movement of the wind in the trees. It starts from a distance, faint at first, as the leaves begin to rustle against each other. It sounds just like a gentle rush of rain that seems to approach from one direction and moves through the trees like an oncoming wave. But it isn’t rain. It’s the invisible breath of God reminding me that He’s omnipresent and ever mindful of me.

Another curious sound occurs in the afternoon when the sun is intensely hot. The tin roof of our shop pops and crackles as the metal expands and contracts from the heat. It sounds a little like raindrops, too.

I think about how fortunate John and I are to live here on this remarkable piece of land, to care for it and nurture it. While not exactly a life of ease in our retirement years, it will certainly be a worthwhile endeavor for us. We are learning as we go what it takes not only to maintain the property, but to pause our labors long enough to appreciate its boundless gifts in return.

Something amazing and wonderful just happened. One of the tiny hummingbirds that has been visiting my feeders flew directly at my face like an arrow shot from a bow. It happened at the very instant I turned to look when I heard it chittering. In that moment, I sat transfixed with my eyes almost crossing as it came within inches of my face. It hovered there as if it were assessing me—as though I were a strange alien in its natural habitat.

In that encounter with this enchanting envoy of God's creation, it occurred to me that sometimes that’s how it feels to be here—like a stranger. I know there are a lot of people who think that way—that human beings are a blight on the earth. But we are the most indigenous of all, and our true role is to be stewards of this marvelous place. John is especially gifted in this role because he loves the forests, the oceans, the mountains, and all the creatures that inhabit each place, just as I do.

Life couldn’t be sweeter.