Bruce Robert Holt, my spiritual mentor and soul guide for much of my adult life, was also my first wife's father. He was born and grew up in what is now the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
Bruce claimed that when he was a boy, their garden was so steep they had to fire seed corn into the ground with a shotgun. Being myself born and raised a flatlander, I assumed that was a quaint Appalachian exaggeration.
Every morning, when I go up to my garden, I think of Bruce.