Fall is an eclectic season. With the chillier nights come football games, letterman jackets and warm sweaters, the bounty of harvest goodness, corn mazes and campfires, apple cider and s’mores. The leaves trade the uniform greens of summer for their true bright golds, reds and oranges, and the rolling hills seem to come alive. It’s the most colorful time of year in our little patch of paradise.
But the truth is, our part of western Pennsylvania is colorful year round. Perhaps most of the year the color is masked by green, or even barren in the winter, but the color is still there, hidden in our stories.
Our stories are what define us, what brings meaning to our daily lives and to our struggles. And sharing our stories is what connects us.
“The need to tell ours stories is essential to the human species – second in necessity after nourishment and before love and shelter. Millions survive without love or a home, almost none survive silence.” So says Reynolds Price, and I agree.
“Every story begins at home.” That’s the motto of the Laurel Mountain Post, that’s what drew me to pick up and read the magazine; that’s what prompted me to submit one of my own stories. One story led to another, and a monthly outdoor column has now morphed into a Managing Editor role with the Laurel Mountain Post, because there is so much color to share.
I look forward to sharing with you the stories of the people behind the galleries and restaurants and farms of our area, the stories of the hidden special colorful places that dot our region, of the memories we share and the shared memories we are creating. It will be a grand adventure, continuing to bring these stores to life in the glossy pages of the Laurel Mountain Post, connecting our readers to each other, our advertisers to customers, and our stories from our house to yours.
And there is so much excitement to come, from celebrating the Laurel Mountain Post’s upcoming ten-year anniversary to a new web site that will make our stories even easier to share! Join me in telling our tales for another ten years, won’t you?