Mountains. More mountains. We have been in the mountains or within sight of the mountains since we left North Carolina on Thursday. Even now, riding through the backroads of New Hampshire we are surrounded by mountains.

I now have a greater sense of how the knobs of the Appalachians are spread out across this part of our great country. The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia is framed by undulating ridges to the east and west as far as you can see. The Pennsylvania Dutch farms of Franklin County are nestled in small valleys set against the backdrop of hillsides that rise to the sky.

I’ve seen a lot of farmlands in a lot of different states, but I think I can honestly say that these Dutch farms are the most picturesque. The barns here dwarf anything down home. Massive complexes of sheds, milking parlors, livestock barns, hay barns, silos, and silage pits. Pristine farmhouses. No broken-down old equipment hiding in the weeds. Every corner neat and trimmed. Everything in its place.

Some of the barns are white. Some are the more traditional red. The corn fields are lush and thick. They flow and spread out over hill and dale like syrup over pancakes. Some fields are no more than 50 acres. Many of them are 300 acres. Thousands of acres all together, one farm right after the other, not knowing where one ends and the next begins.

In the background of every one of them are the mountains showing early signs of fall colors. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted it any better.

When we moved on to the mountains of New York, the farms got smaller, but the valleys were just as green. I’ve never thought of New York like this before. New York City has always occupied the images I have of this place, and although I’ve known that there’s more to New York than the city by that name, it’s hard to change one’s perspective until you see it differently for yourself.

We stopped in Cooperstown, about 18 miles off the interstate. If you know anything at all about baseball, then you know we went to see the National Baseball Hall of Fame. We visited with Babe, Lou, Ted, Mickey, and Hank. We saw the baseballs and bats that set the records. The gloves that made the catches. The film clips that live in infamy within our collective love for the game.

Visitors are not allowed to touch the exhibits and artifacts, but to stand next to the uniform that Hank wore when he hit number 715, or to see the jersey that Chipper wore in his last game, or the glove that Maddux wore when he toyed with the opposition, boy, that’s just incredible.

It was Joe Morgan who said, “Being here is like standing on holy ground.”

I can see that.

By the time we rolled into Rutland, Vermont at the end of our second day, we were bone tired. Our waitress at the local grill could tell we were foreigners. She kept coming by our table to see how we were doing.

“You guys are gonna get tired of me, but I have to ask where you are from.”

I have no idea what gave us away.

“Georgia,” I said. “We’ve been driving for two days.”

“I knew it,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to see Georgia.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to see Vermont.”

I guess that there’s a universal longing to see places you’ve never visited. I take Georgia for granted with the humidity, gnats, skeeters, and armadillos. She takes Vermont for granted with its mountains, maple trees, maple syrup, and maple candies.

Then she served up a cup of maple vanilla ice cream that was to die for.

I know that the typical route to Maine is not through Vermont. We drove this route so we could visit the cemetery where Marion’s “Gram” is buried. East Clarendon Cemetery is a beautiful old burial place set on a hillside, surrounded by massive maples and hemlocks. We didn’t have a guide to the layout, so it took us a while to find the headstone.

Marion Geraldine Clark Savery was 96 when she passed away in the spring of 2007. She is the namesake of Marion Joy Chamberlin Laster, the one and only. The elder Marion used to send care packages to her southern family every fall before the holidays. Tins of honest to goodness Vermont maple syrup, wooden boxes of salted codfish, jars of B&M baked beans, and cans of brown bread.

In return, they would send to her a box of pecan logs. Seems to me that Georgia got the better deal.

We stood by the grave for a while. Marion placed a fresh mum by the headstone. She told me some of the personal stories and circumstances that are the hidden parts of every family. The events that make us strong. The hurts that shape our perspectives. Getting to know Marion Geraldine helps me to know and love Marion Joy just a little more for who she is.

The morning was getting away from us. We wanted to make it to our cottage in Maine before nightfall. The last thing either of us needs is to be wandering around uncharted territory in the dark looking for a very non-descript cabin on a lake we’ve never seen before.

So, what do we do? We stopped at the first red barn we saw offering authentic Vermont maple syrup. The proprietor was Mary. Sweet gal. She knew everything there was to know about maple anything. The mistake we made was letting her provide us with sample tastes of syrup, candy, and cream. Golden and amber flavors that melted our resistance. We left there with a cardboard box full of treats to bring home.

Traveling from the west side of Vermont to Maine is not easy. There are no major thoroughfares. The interstates here only go generally north and south. Consequently, GPS took us down a few narrow dirt roads on part of the trip, which I actually wouldn’t trade for anything. We got to see some of the less traveled sections of Vermont.

By early afternoon we pulled into a spot somewhere in New Hampshire to grab a bite to eat. This is where we met Kim. She parked next to us and as we were getting out of the truck she called out to us.

“Did you really drive all the way from Georgia?”

I thought it was obvious with all the bug splatter covering the front of the truck. We introduced ourselves and she got almost giddy.

“Keep talking,” she said, which I did. “I love the charm of the southern accent. My daughter is in school in North Carolina.”

We visited and laughed for 15 minutes or more. There are good folks everywhere.

As I’m finishing this story, we are finally in Maine. We just left the Maine Welcome Center where we were told we still have about three hours to go to get to our cabin. Which means it’ll probably be dark by the time we unload.

But, hey, we’re in Maine. I’m hoping for a lobster supper.