The rain may have arrived too soon. But the combination of wind and rain cleared the trees of fall color. And surprisingly, stuck them to our picture window when we lived in Galesburg, Illinois 10 years ago. I've tried to replicate this, but the effect is not quite the same as what nature can pull off.

We did find color in the Smokies a week ago, on a road that we had not been on before. We enjoy the small area of Townsend more than the tourist attractions of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge. But last week, we stayed in Pigeon Forge and drove the Wears Valley road to Townsend. And there was color all along the way. We also visited some other places that were new for us, including hiking to the Walker Sisters' cabin. While it was certainly quiet by the cabin, we imagined that it must have been a very difficult life for the family in that remote location. We enjoy living closer to the Park than we ever have before.

It began Wednesday night with Madeline"s homework. When did your first ancestor come to America and who was it? The question had come up before, not in her mind necessarily. I've wondered, among other members of my family. Part of the answer was Johannes Herchelroth in 1733, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. But there are 256 persons that make up that generation, which means Madeline (my granddaughter) has 1023 other great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents besides Johannes Herchelroth, including some on her mother's side who were here long before the great German immigration of the early 1700s. But I never had an answer to "why" until yesterday when Michael found a narrative from some our extended family that filled in at least an outline of possibilities. As I read the account of persecution and starvation that caused many Germans to leave and come to America, I wept. One of my ancestors, that I interestingly share his name, landed in Philadelphia after a long and difficult sea voyage on The Elizabeth. He was 19. The account is much too long to quote here. But I wonder what he thought when he stepped off that ship in Philadelphia's harbor.

The last thing I did before I left Old Car City this past Saturday was to go upstairs in the main building. Signs invited visitors to see the art gallery. One room had a number of abstract paintings, with a few that could be classified as primitive folk art, but the second room was filled with styrofoam cups.

Every one of them was covered with designs. Not one was the same. Obviously, hours of effort was represented.

The owner of Old Car City "doodles" a cup, or more, most evenings. Just something to do. Some of them you could buy, if you wanted. For the first time all day, my mouth just kind of fell open. Who knows where you will find art?

This past Friday we were on our way from Pigeon Forge, TN to Cartersville, GA, taking the scenic route (not down the interstate). Among the places that we drove through, we stopped at the Hiwasee River where we had ridden the train in September. I thought there might be some fall color somewhere along the river. We found ourselves in a rather remote part of the National Forest driving, on a narrow gravel road. I saw some reflections of fall color in the stream next to the road and stopped to take the photo below. You may have to stand on your head as the reflection is upside down, just as I saw it. I not only like the color and the shape of the trees but how the ripples of the water adds to the picture. Something to look at today instead of political ads.

Shortly after I moved to Nashville and became part of the Brentwood Photography Group, I began to hear about and see photos from Old Car City in White, Georgia. I wondered about it. And then this past Saturday I was one of a dozen club members who spent a cold, blustery day exploring 34 acres of more than 4,000 old cars. I dressed warmly (I am from the north) and began to make my way around the trees. It wasn't long until I realized I was alone and could not see another person. For a moment or two, I wondered if I would be able to find my way back to the entrance. Soon, it didn't matter as I saw possible photos in every direction. I made more than 250 images.

After a while, I began to consider that these old cars had become derelicts. And Old Car City had become an entertainment destination rather than a salvage yard. They no longer sell used parts. Some cars looked like they could be somebody's restoration project. But they will just continue to rust away in northern Georgia. Part of me was disappointed that among the memories there was no hope for renewal. Don't get me wrong. I had fun. I have some great images, I think. But it was quite different from appreciating gleaming, rebuilt old cars. In the end, I felt different emotions than when I attend a car show. Do you see it in this photo?

This is one of those photos that was better behind me than the one I was taking in front of me. I had stopped along the stream in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The color wasn't spectacular. But I was relaxing and enjoying the drive. Except an occasional stop to take a photo. Sometimes, I foolishly wait for people to get out of my photo, but this time the fisherman made the picture. He was moving around, looking for a better fishing spot, so he was in this position for just a moment. In less than a minute, he was further away from me. And the picture wasn't the same. I am learning to relax and let the pictures find me.

Before I was ordained a Deacon in the summer of 1982, I had attended the annual gathering of Methodists only once. So I was unfamiliar with the traditions. And I had never heard of All Saints' Day. But I have come to cherish the rituals and traditions of the church. Two hymns are traditionally sung at the Annual Conference: a Charles Wesley hymn often sung at the beginning, "And Are We Yet Alive", and "For All the Saints" commonly chosen for the memorial service as we remember those who have died during the past year.

My memory is full of those dear ones who have gone on before me. Each year my congregations lit candles and recited the names of members and friends who had died the preceding year. And we sang. One hymn became precious to me.

The third verse of Natalie Sleeth's "Hymn of Promise"

"In our end is our beginning; in our time, infinity; in our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity. In our death, a resurrection; at the last, a victory, unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see."