So, I just got home tonight after a long day of trying to get back cross country after the big storms that struck from the Midwest all the way down South. Before I could even begin my odyssey of flight my brother, sisters, and cousins made a 3-hour long trek deep into the Great Smokey Mountain National Park, this morning before I left, to the site of my family's ancestral beginnings.

The whole area is dominated by towering Oak trees. It is tradition for the "Wilson" men to pick an Oak tree within the area of the work camp in which they lived next to the train tracks where they worked, and upon death their next of kin, usually sons, nephews, and brothers carve their name into said tree. Then the body, which has been cremated, is spread at the base of the tree, almost like a living tomb stone.

So, now my Dad rests where he wished. My business back East is done and I am back.