Here in Ashland, Virginia, there's a story passed down generation by generation,

mother to daughter, father to son.

I'm not sure how it started, and I've heard different versions whispered at late-night campfires

or in alcohol-soaked basements after the actual party has long since ended.

Is it a legend, a myth?

A folk tale passed down through the decades?

Or is it a religious story?

A Bible parable changed and twisted by a generational game of telephone.

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe we know instinctively that

each version of the tale is true, in its own way. The version I first heard was told to me by

my grandmother before the cancer came back and took her away. It was just after supper and the summer heat's edge had just started to cool as the day gave way tonight.

We were sitting on the porch and staring out over the mountains.

Always grand, the Blue Ridge Mountains namesake effect was particularly striking that evening. The mountains were bright blue as far as the

eye could see. I just finished telling Grandma Jane what I'd learned in my science class. Apparently,

the trees release a chemical called isobrene into the atmosphere that gives the mountain

their characteristic color and haze under the

right light.

That's interesting, dear, she said, still sitting on our little outdoor sofa, a gin and

tonic in hand.

Grandma Jane wasn't a big drinker, but she liked to have one or two after meals with the family.

At the time, I'd thought that maybe she missed Grandpa more when the whole family came together.

Maybe when she was at home alone she could pretend he was at work, or away on a trip.

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