In December of 1979, my parents planned a trip to Gatlinburg. We would leave 2 days after Christmas and we would be there for my birthday. I was on board with this trip, because I loved Gatlinburg, but they seemed to be selling it to me as if I wasn’t already a buyer. It was advertised as my birthday trip. As a trip for me. I’m smart enough now to know an obvious sales pitch. Back then, I was not. I bought the lines and began to think of the trip as a vacation planned for me and around me.

There’s no way that was true. It wasn’t even a little bit true. Because if it had been, this story wouldn’t be typing itself. There wouldn’t be a story here at all.

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