Eureka

There aren’t many places like the mountains of western North Carolina. Admittedly, I’m biased. I grew up in the foothills, in the Upstate (or, today, “Upcountry”) of South Carolina, just a few winding roads away from some of the prettiest land in America.

It’s not awe-inspiring, usually. It’s a livable sort of heaven. Like granite bean bags covered in trees. It’s a nice place.

I’d grown up in those mountains, so I didn’t really think much of it when I hopped in a car to drive up to Black Mountain for the 1992 YMCA Conference on National Affairs — “National Affairs” to people of my vintage, “CONA” to the youngsters. Black Mountain itself is a bit blue collar, strip malls and the undermaintained above-ground power and cable lines that add a sort of honest shabbiness to a place. And the YMCA facility itself? Nice, but nothing like Camp Greenville to my eyes.

Imagine getting out of the car, then, happy but unimpressed – even a bit jaded – and walking up to the (unfortunately named) Robert E. Lee Hall not knowing that you were about to meet the person you’d end up marrying more than 20 years later.

Twenty years. The years have dimmed a few memories. And the memories that haven’t dimmed are sometimes unfortunate (the gray, iridescent meat that might have been turkey and might have been fish springs to mind), but I remember meeting this tiny blonde person named Kari. I remember meeting lots of other neat people too, people I kept in touch with after National Affairs. But Kari and I never quit talking, emailing, IMing. No matter how much time and how much life passed, we kept talking. And now we’re getting married.

But I didn’t know all that when we met. I was young and dumb. I didn’t really know what to do or say to this little Floridian superstar who’d appeared before me, Eureka Treat clutched close. We ran into each other a few times. She perched on my chair when we had a little musical interlude in the main hall one night. We hugged when we said goodbye. And that was the beginning.

Because we sort of forgot to say goodbye. The thick book we all had contained a complete directory of all the attendees, including home addresses and phone numbers. I can’t imagine they still do today. And no email addresses, no twitter, no tumblr, no facebook either. So we talked. We wrote letters. A few years later we got email, then IM. We stayed in touch. We told each other about the things happening in our lives. Time passed.

Then, about a year ago, we decided to meet up again. But that’s another story.

So now those familiar mountains, grubby towns, and unfortunately named buildings, now they mean more to me than they ever did when I was growing up. It’s a strange feeling, to think you know something so well only find a completely new way to see it, a way that opens your eyes and fills your heart up more than you ever though possible.

And it reminds you that, for all the grinds and bumps and scrapes of life, magic can happen. Always.