One December afternoon, several years ago, I made it down the wintry roads and into the local UPS store to ship off a number of packages.
The woman behind the counter was very pleasant and while she typed up labels for me, we got to talking about the morning’s ice storm that had shut down schools for those of us in the higher elevations.
Which, naturally,
led to a discussion about our kids.
Reading the address on one of my boxes, she remarked, “Oh, my older daughter’s name is Savannah!”
“People often ask me if she was conceived in Savannah,” she continued conversationally, “and that’s why we named her that.”
“Was she?” I asked, tentatively.
“No!” she replied with a laugh.
“But it would have sounded pretty odd to call her Woodfin.”
On the Edge of Appalachia 