THIS LAND
I was looking for a way to survive when I remembered Mary Fields. The atmosphere in Missoula, where the University of Montana had invited me to teach as a visiting writer, had become my adversary. The deep cold that greeted me upon my arrival in January would not let up. When it wasn’t snowing, there was mud. When the mud dried, there was dust—a fine coating everywhere, including inside my nostrils and mouth.
As the semester wound down, I found myself thousands of miles from the Appalachian spring I adored. My bones knew it was time for the trilliums to bloom in the foothills. Oconee bells, too, and rocky shoals spider lilies. On this side of the country, the crocuses had yet to emerge from the snow. I tried to cook away my homesickness—shrimp and grits, yellow-eyed peas, even collard greens when I could find them. I filled my house with
