An Ode to My Great Grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have, I will confess to this, been feeling exasperated, rushed. I've gotten myself too deeply into too many things; we all do that, this time of year. But did I really have to sign up to perform a complicated cha-cha Friday night, in the midst of finishing a massive corporate web site and launching four new client projects? And can I really think about anything coherently until I know whether my son will be granted his early-decision wishes at a fabulous university? And why is the Christmas tree sitting out on the porch in the rain, and not here, in the house, where it belongs? And have I bought a single hostess gift this year? No. Not yet. Of course not.

But today, running from my house to the mailbox and back, I stopped—realized that I had in hand a package from my dear friend Katrina Kenison, who edited Best American Short Stories for years and who now at last lives in a house that she and her family literally loved into existence. (And you should see the views at night.)

In any case, there I was, running, and there, of a sudden, was this package, and before I knew it, I was holding in my hands an original copy of a book called CAMP COOKERY, which probably doesn't ring a bell for you, but which was authored by none other than my great grandfather, Horace Kephart. He was a bit of an odd bird, this man, but a genius, too. A brilliant librarian who had a Virginia Woolf-quality breakdown at the age of forty-two. He was already the father of six, the husband of one, but he left everything he knew behind and traveled to North Carolina, where he fell in love with mountains and bears and local lore, drank moonshine, authored books with names like OUR SOUTHERN HIGHLANDERS, became mayor, and fought for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He won the last battle. The preservation of that land as whole and true has a lot to do with him. (I hear that Ken Burns is making a documentary of great national parks. Oh, I hope that he remembers Horace.)

CAMP COOKERY, Katrina wrote, had been in her personal library for years, acquired, her letter informed me, "back when I was sure that, someday, I'd be living part-time in a rustic cabin by a pond." I'm not sure that we knew each other then. I'm not sure that I've ever even told her my great-grandfather's complete story, but here was this book, this perfect, sanctified, preserved treasure, and not just the book, but old newspaper recipes kept inside.

Are there better gifts than these? Are there dearer friends? Are there more succinct reminders of what this season means?

Horace, I hope you're up there listening, you strange and wonderful man. You may have left your family for a mountain, but family continues to swell around you.