I was deep in the mountains when the bombs went off in Boston, in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, one of those few places where you can’t get a cell signal.
Back on the highway, our phones beeped the news. Friends and relatives making sure each other was OK, asking if we might have known anyone near the finish line.
“It’s just terrible,” my daughter texted. “I still can’t believe it. That’s our Marathon!”
We read the news on my phone, and watched the chilling video. Then we stopped for a drink at a place where a real fine bluegrass band was playing.
“Don’t know if y’all heard the news,” the mandolin player said between songs, “but there’s been an attack up at the Boston Marathon. Some folks done been killed and a bunch more wounded. Don’t know much more, but y’all be praying for them folks up in Boston.”
I don’t know what more to say.