I got a letter from a person who lives in Charlotte recently about my unfortunate need to travel to the city. The individual referred to my column as an ‘ad,’ a fact which would indicate they feel I find this important enough to pay for it myself. I won’t further think about that, since I wonder sometimes why I do it to start with.

Anyway, the letter, unsigned, stipulated that the writer felt it was pointless to sign it because we “probably wouldn’t run it any way.” We are no stranger to criticism and don’t shy away from printing letters that are less than positive.

I was struck by a few lines that really made me think a little bit about my own family history.

This person said he or she got out of school in the mid 50s and left the area in the mid 60s because of the lack of jobs here. The answer to my question about, “What’s to like about the city,” was answered with, “Jobs, jobs and more jobs.”

Hard to argue that, I suppose. But we can hope things get better here in the future. The poor job market in these mountains has been around longer than the current crisis, the letter tells me.

The author also stated that I-77 sure beats Old U.S. 21 as a roadway, which is an arguable fact, and several other things. As a man who appreciates the dusty dirt roads that wind through steep hills and pastures, over wooded mountains and around gurgling streams, I can honestly say that I’d take the old road over the new road any day. However, when it’s time to go to the big city, we have to make sacrifices.

Those who decided to stay here and make their way in these mountains also have had to make some sacrifices. We are assured of making less money and having less ‘upward mobility’ than our cousins in the city. We have fewer choices of where we might find employment, with some even traveling to a city every day to work.

But there is no place that has it all, I’m afraid. Each of us must find the place that tells our hearts, “This is home,” and stay there. Is that place a bustling city street or a quiet mountain trail? That depends on who you are and maybe on where you start.

The writer had trouble believing anyone would have any difficulty getting into Charlotte. Well, any idiot can get there by heading south on I-77. My problem is finding my way around there, or in any city, after I get there. But I bet I can lose you on some of these back roads.

One of my friends here talks about driving from one end of the county to the other without using paved roads, with the exception of sometimes crossing a roadway to get to the dirt road on the other side. Those days are gone. As I say often, change comes here also, just more slowly. As we grow more modern, more populated and maybe even more employed, I just hope we don’t lose sight of where we came from.

The part of the letter that struck me wasn’t criticism, but sadness that so many of our native sons and daughters leave and never return here. Instead, they are so often replaced by others who ‘discover’ the beauty of these mountains and never leave. Indeed they have found a treasure worth holding onto.

Those who don’t return will never get to sit in their kitchen like I do and watch the golden sun break over the mountains as a deer bounds through the field behind the house. I would miss the clean smell of the air after a hard snow, not to mention the warmth of a wood fire on the frosty mountain evenings we so often have here in the winter. What about the crackle of leaves and twigs beneath your feet as you attempt to walk through the woods quietly or the slosh of a mountain stream around your legs as you wade in search of another fresh trout to place on your stringer?

To me those things are much more valuable than money, too precious to be priced and too rare to be left. Of course, I do have a job and that certainly makes a difference. We all have to feed our families. Nearly 70 years ago, my grandfather left these mountains headed to Norfolk, Va. to work in the shipyards just after the Depression. He had to earn a living, too. He took his six sons and made his way there for awhile, although I’m not sure what he did exactly other than working “in a shipyard.”

My father has shared stories about earning money pushing people’s groceries home for them. Such excess was unheard of on the little one-lane road he grew up on. Before long, the family found a way to return to settle down to do a little small-scale farming and my grandfather took a job in a furniture factory earning a little more than nothing.

But I am very glad he decided to come back here, elseways I might be writing about ships instead of mountains. Maybe I’d call the column, “From the Shipyard.” I’m getting seasick just thinking about it.

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