Monday, November 24, 2008

Masterpiece


Come lounge with me on wicker chaise 'midst fall's grand panoply,
obliviously nonchalant to winter's looming fray.

Immersed within a palette strewn with hues of red and gold;
brown, yellow, green and orange in this masterpiece we're shown.

Crisp foliated blends disperse an aromatic gale.
Autumnal equinox displayed on nature's grandest scale!
***

Jane
-Ann Heitmueller

Sunday, November 23, 2008

We Give Thanks


We Give Thanks

By Cappy Hall Rearick

“Home is where your story begins.”

Last year, our Thanksgiving began when the SUV carrying the grandkids from hell was out of sight. Seeing those diminishing taillights was a beautiful thing.

Babe turned to me. "I know we survived, but is the house still standing? I can’t look." Peeking behind him, I prepared myself for the wreckage of Rearickville.

Out cat Igor was sprawled on his back, his legs sticking straight up. He had swished his tail so many times he might have broken it. Igor spent the day hissing, snarling and running from the Jack Russell grandpuppy, who pounced and chased the poor cat non-stop. If Igor could have, he’d have begged for Prozac, to which I’d have said, “There’s none left.” Many people are unaware that sucking on Prozac all day instead of hard candy can jumpstart a Zen experience.

I didn’t decorate for the holiday. Instead I asked the kids to gather some leaves from the back yard. They thought up the live frogs on their own. My oldest grandson crafted a groundhog with his own hands from a brown paper bag. He said it was a turkey. I nodded. Anything less might have stunted his creative spirit.

In our family we tolerate the vegetarian who eats nothing that previously wore feathers, and another who eats nothing but Cocoa Puffs. The daughter-in-law is on a hunger strike until she is given the green light to hire a live-in cook. The son, an enthusiastic jug wine drinker, eats anything dead or alive after sipping the grape.

Silly me for trying to preserve the ambiance of a traditional sit-down dinner complete with football noise in the background. Butterball turkey, giblet gravy, dressing made from scratch and yams with marshmallows on top.

So much for tradition.

At four p.m., when I announced that dinner would be fashionably late, Lucifer's children began to entertain everyone by repeating every expletive they heard me utter regarding Thanksgiving, pilgrims and phone calls to the Butterball hotline made earlier that morning upon discovering my turkey was still hard as last year’s Halloween corn candy.

While they gleefully shared snatches of my unladylike behavior, I put on a tape of my son’s bass drum recital at age eight, hoping to muffle sounds of the frozen turkey bouncing around in the clothes dryer.

When we were about to sit down for dinner, in the spirit of harmony, I suggested the children should sit at a separate table. In a separate room. Next door. I was voted down.

Having a crowd of appreciative onlookers applauding a perfectly carved, golden brown turkey means bupkis to Babe. He doesn’t carve; he chops. With that in mind, I suggested a private turkey chopping ceremony in the kitchen. No way did I want anyone to see him hack up that turkey as if he were in a scene from “Saw II.”

But when everyone at the table was beginning to look like starving refugees, my son told his small, unsuspecting children to get in there and check on their grandfather.

"Babe is seriously battling an unarmed turkey with a Ginsu knife." I said. “Trust me. No one should get anywhere near him at this point.”

My youngest grandson chomped his fourth bowl of Cocoa Puffs and while the rest of us began to consider whether cold cereal could be a viable alternative to real food, he made "mmmmmm" sounds with every mouthful.

I can’t understand why anyone would prefer chickpeas to a drumstick, but in deference to the vegan, I sculpted a small turkey from tofu using colored toothpicks as a tail. I brushed it with egg whites and then baked it to a golden crisp. When I brought it to the table, instead of the appreciation I expected, laughter and name-calling prevailed. Positive reinforcement is darn hard to come by these days.

Instead of the several different desserts that I might have made had the turkey thawed like it should have, I baked a Mrs. Paul’s pumpkin pie and put Cool Whip and M & M's on top, the latter addition another creative urge from the oldest grandson.

There could have been coffee. I can’t say because I seized what was left of the wine, shut myself up in the closet and drank it straight from the jug.

We are thankful for many things, but watching those disappearing taillights last Thanksgiving gave a whole new dimension to the word thankful.

Happy Turkey Day y’all!

www.simplysoutherncappy.com


Thursday, November 20, 2008

Shopping on a November Night


Shopping on a November Night

Walking out of the shopping store
The Salvation Army man is putting
his bucket and bell away.
A train rolls through the night.
A jetliner inches its way across
the sky.
My wife and I are eating peppermint
chocolate.
I'm drinking a Coke-a-Cola.
Wednesday we'll go to the mountains
to buy apples if the weather permits.
Here pecans, just fall and fall,
papershells that make good gifts.
I'm hoping this winter for a Southern
snow.

Danny P. Barbare barbaredaniel@yahoo.com

Friday, November 14, 2008

DALE


Julie sat down in the grass and watched her friend Nell finish her chores. She was concerned because Nell had told her that Dale was no longer doing the weekly wash for her mother, that Nell couldn’t go to Dale’s any more, and that Dale’s coming to the New house was no longer “proper.” This was a term that was unfamiliar to Julie. I wonder what’s wrong with Dale, she pondered. Dale was her favorite person, outside of Nell.

Dale always welcomed her into her tiny cabin on the other side of the hill. Sometimes Julie’s ramblings took her in the direction of the cabin, and she would stop and eat the bowl of bread and milk that Dale always had on hand. At other times, she would go directly to Dale’s house just to talk, always knowing that she would be given something to eat. Dale’s house was best in winter--then she would usually have something cooking on the stove sending the smell of food steaming through the two rooms. Whatever she had, she shared with Julie. Dale loved the child, this child who had ignorant and uncaring parents--nobody to care for her--and it broke her heart to see Julie wandering in the wintertime without enough clothes to keep her warm and without enough solid food to put flesh on her frail body. So at every chance she shared what she had. And sometimes the food that Julie ate was the only food in the house. But Julie never knew that.

Nell finished what she was doing. “I’ve got to go back to the house now,” she said, “before Momma gets mad at me. You want to play with me now?”

“Naw,” said Julie. “I think I’ll go down and see about Dale. Can you play this evenin’?”

“If I don’t have to help Mama,” said Nell.

Julie carefully skirted Nell’s house and made her way down the other side of the hill leading to Dale’s.

The black woman had seen her coming and was waiting on the porch to greet her as she came up the path. “How’s Julie this mornin’?” she asked as Julie carefully placed her feet on the sawed portion of a tree trunk that served as the step to the porch.

“Fine,” said Julie. “Are you sick?”

“No, Honey, I’m not sick, why you ask that?”

“Well,” said Julie, as she entered the tiny cabin through the door held open by the woman. “Nell says you ain’t washin’ for them no more, and that she can’t come down to see you ‘cause it ain’t proper.

“Oh, Honey,” laughed Dale, “don’t you worry your little head about that. Miss Ella New is just on her high-horse again! If everything in this old world was made to fit Miss Ella, it sure would be some world!”

“But she said yesterday that Nell couldn’t come to see you!”

“’Course she can!”

“But Miss Ella said she couldn’t!”

“Oh, Miss Ella’ll come off that. She’s just puttin’ on one of her shows. She just ain’t got ‘nough money to pay me right now, so she’s just sayin’ that she don’t like me so’s she’ll have an excuse for havin’ to do her own work for a while.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Cause she thinks she is some high-born lady, and she ain’t supposed to get her hands dirty doin’ no work….”

“But my momma does her own work…..”

“Honey, there’s mommas and there’s mommas. Ain’t nothin’ alike in your momma and Miss Ella.”

“But Miss Ella is real smart….”

“What you mean, smart? There’s worlds of difference in smart and smart. Now you take Miss Ella--she may be smart in that she can read books and talk good and things like that, and you think she’s smart because your momma can’t. But you listen to me, your momma may not be smart in things like Miss Ella, and your momma may not do a lot of things you would like for her to do, but where it really matters, your momma is real smart She don’t stop you from doin’ a lot of things that lets you learn. She may not help you--she may not can help you--but she lets you learn by yourself. And that’s learnin’ the hard way, but it’s good learning’ ‘cause you won’t forget what you learn when you get it like that. No, don’t you ever wish your momma was like Miss Ella. You the lucky one, girl, to have the momma you got. It’s Nell you ought to be feeling sorry for, ‘cause she ain’t gonna have the chances you’ll get….”

“But, Dale, Nell’s got ever’thing!”

“Cept a chance to learn by herself! Now, here, sit by the table and I’ll find us somethin’ t’eat.” Dale puttered around the stove and came back to the table with two bowls filled with steaming broth.

At the sight of them, Julie’s mouth watered. “What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, just a little old fox squirrel that’s been runnin’ around that scaley-bark tree down in the pasture. He makes a fine stew, don’t he?”

“Sure does!” said Julie as she ladled a spoonful of broth from the bowl to her mouth.

“Whoa, there,” said Dale. “Didn’t you forget something?”

“Yeah,” said Julie. “I’m sorry…I forgot.”

‘Okay, now bow your head and let’s give the good Lord His due. Remember, if He can take care of us, we surely can remember Him a little bit.”

Julie bowed her head and listened attentively as Dale reverently mumbled the message that had been taught to her in childhood. She finished and picked up her spoon. “Dale, why do you always say Him?”

“What you mean?”

“Well, ever’ time you pray, you always call God a ‘Him’. Is God a Him?”

“Sure is.”

“Couldn’t God be a woman, Dale?”

“Ain’t no way!”

“Why not..…if you can’t see Him like you say, how do you know?”

“I know.”

“But how do you know?” the child insisted.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the woman. “Did you ever notice how hard I work and how hard your momma works? Well, sir, a man goes to work, sure, but a man comes home and rests. Now, a woman gets up in the morning and cooks breakfast, then she works all morning, and then she cooks dinner, and then she works all evenin’ and then she’s gotta cook supper. And even then her work ain’t done, ‘cause she’s still got to wash the dirty dishes before she gets through. And that’s not even countin’ the other things she has to do before bedtime. But whatever else she’s gotta do, she’s gotta stop and cook.”

“But what’s that go to do with whether God’s a man or a woman?”

“Well, Honey, just think--it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Ain’t no woman gonna plan a world where ever’ day starts with cookin’ a meal and ever’ day ends with cookin’ a meal! No, sir, God sure ain’t no woman!”

“Well, I guess not, Dale, but whatever He is, He made good squirrel!” responded the child as she emptied the spoon into her mouth.

“Yessiree,” said Dale, “squirrel is the one thing I miss most since Tom passed. He used to keep us pretty well in squirrels--and rabbits, too--but since he died they’re gettin’ kinda scarce around here. I can take his old rifle and hunt as much as he did, but I just don’t have the eyes he had, and it’s hard for me to see a squirrel until the leaves have fell off, and by that time they’ve mostly gone into their nests for the winter.

“Couldn’t you just shoot into the nests?” asked Julie. “Looks like you’d hit one for sure if you shot into the nest.”

“Now, Julie Mathis, I’m plumb surprised at you. All of God’s little ole creatures has got to have a fightin’ chance at livin’. And what chance would this ole fox squirrel had had if I was just to shoot into his nest. As much as I wanted to cook him, he had to have a chance, too. Uh, uh, I couldn’t have eaten him if I had killed him in his sleep. But I knew if I waited long enough under that tree, he’d come out sooner or later and I would have my chance at him. I got’m, too!”

“He sure is good,” said Julie, as she pondered the wisdom of her friend.

“Finish eatin’ your stew, and we’ll go out and gather up some of the limbs that fell off the pine trees and make us a fire, “said Dale. “It’s getting’ a little chilly today.”

“Sure is,” said Julie. “I got cold comin’ over here.”

The two sat quietly, eating the nourishing broth. Dale finished first and took her bowl and spoon to the dishpan to wash them while Julie gleaned the last morsel from her bowl.

“Come on,” said Dale as she finished putting away the dishes. “Let’s go get that wood.” They crossed the yard to the edge of the clearing and began picking up the small twigs and branches in their arms. “Grab a handful of them dry pine needles, too, “said Dale. “We’ll need them to get it started since I ain’t got no coal oil.” Arms loaded, they retraced their steps toward the house.

“Dale, why we gatherin’ up these limbs when you got wood cut in the rack by the chim’ley?”

“Them’s big logs to go on after the fire is started. Ain’t no way to get a big log goin’ ‘less you start a little fire first. I’ll put one of them on in a bit.”

They entered the cabin and emptied their arms on the hearth. Dale carefully piled the needles in the center of the firebox, added the small twigs and branches, and, reaching to the mantel above her, selected a wooden match. She scratched it on the sandstone side of the fireplace and touched it to the needles. A small blue flame rose and gently lapped the twigs until they, too, caught and began burning. Dale watched it for a moment, decided it was going to burn, and went outside for a larger piece of wood from the rack. She added the log to the fire. She took a patchwork quilt from the foot of the bed and placed on the floor in front of the fire. “Let’s rest here for a while,” she said, patting the space at her side.

Julie stretched out beside her and lay watching the flames. The warmth from the burning logs and the fullness of her stomach made her drowsy, and she soon fell asleep, snuggled in the softness of the quilt.

Dale saw that Julie was sound asleep and rose to resume her housework. Several times she quietly added fuel to the fire without disturbing the child. The afternoon passed.

“Julie.”

“Hmmm.”

“Julie, Honey, you oughta be wakin’ up now.” Julie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “It’s the middle of the afternoon; you best be getting’ home now.”

“Oh, Dale, I was sound asleep!”

“You been sleepin’ a long time…you gotta be runnin’ along.”

“Okay,” said Julie, “but I sure do like to come down here to see you. Can Nell come with me next time?”

“Sure can,” said Dale, “anytime she wants.”

______________________________


Written by Bettye Galloway
(bgalloway@watervalley.net).

Born, reared, and educated in Oxford, Lafayette County, Mississippi; retired
from Mississippi state service (primarily the University of Mississippi) and
as executive vice president of a drug testing laboratory.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

AUTUMN


AUTUMNBold
Last night, a great wind!
It looked in all the windows,
And tried the doors and shook the pecan trees--
It blew the leaves out of my yard and into my
neighbor’s--
Oh, blessed zephyr!

JACK PEACHUM
MINTJLP@VERIZON.NET

Friday, November 7, 2008

What is a Melungeon?

Black Dutch, Redbones, Brass Ankles, Carmel Indians and Guineas are all terms which have been used to describe the group of olive skinned, dark haired people which appeared in the United States as early as the late 1600's, collectively known as Melungeons.

Usually living way back off the beaten path in their own small settlements of log houses with arched windows, the Melungeons have been the topic of rumor and legend for centuries. When asked, they would tell you they were "Portuguee" but recent DNA evidence and some cultural clues weave a tale of Turks, Gypsies, Greeks and Sephardic Jews, most likely brought to our shores aboard ships as slaves. The word itself, Melungeon, is believed by some researchers to be derived from the Turkish phrase "Melun jin" meaning "cursed soul."

One of the stories that is told over and over is that of Mahala "Big Haley" Mullins. Mahala lived in a cabin at the top of a mountain in Newman's Ridge, Tennessee, the best known of the Melungeon settlements. She weighed anywhere from three hundred to five hundred pounds depending on who was telling the story and sold moonshine from a stash beside her bed. Everyone knew Mahala had the best corn liquor, including the local sheriff. He sent the deputy out to arrest her but the deputy arrived back at the courthouse empty handed. It seems Mahala was too large to fit through the door of her cabin, or as the deputy explained it, "she was ketchable, but not fetchable." When Mahala died, her friends and relatives had to knock a hole in the chimney in order to remove the body and being too large for a casket, one was built using the frame of the bed she'd spend most of her life in.

The name Mahala is an unusual one, but not among this unique culture. It could stand as a clue to part of the origins of this group. I found the word "mahala" in a Romani, or Gypsy to English dictionary, meaning "a quarter of town," used like you would to identify a section of the city, such as the French quarter would be the French mahala. It reminds me of how we here in the southern appalachains call our valleys "hollas" or "hallers." Only well meaning city folk refer to them as "hollows." The spot where my grandmother's house sat and my trailer sits now, has always been refered to by the old folks as "Frog Pond Hollar."

If this all sounds strange to you, I understand. It wasn't until two years ago that I heard anyone utter the word Melungeon. My discovery that I was decended from this quirky group was soon to follow. If you have ancestors from the mountains of North Carolina, Tennessee or Virginia, if you've been told that you tan easily because great great grandmother was an indian, but no one knows for sure what tribe nor is there a record of it anywhere, if people comment on your unusual skin tone or the rich tones of your deep blue or emerald green eyes, you might be a Melungeon too.

A few of the surnames that are most common among those with Melungeon ancestory are: Davis, Bowman, Goins, Mullins, Gibson, Collins, Weaver, Stanley, Perkins, Moore, Nash, Kennedy and many others. To have one of these surnames in your family doesn't prove anything, it's just one piece of the puzzle. Another way to tell are by some unusual physical characteristics. Asian shovel teeth are one. Feel the backs of your two front top teeth. If they are curved, like a shovel, you have shovel teeth. There is also a tiny ridge near the gumline that will click when your fingernail is scraped across it. I was amazed by this when I first read it, I thought everyone's teeth were shaped that way. I had everyone in the office picking at the backs of their teeth to see if they were curved or straight. Another physical characteristic is the anatolian bump. If you run your finger from the base of your neck, up the center of the back of your head, you'll feel a bump. Some are the size of a finger tip, some are as big as a golf ball. The Asian eye fold is another one, but a little more tricky to see. There are different variations of this, depending on what area of Asia your ancestors came from and a lot of Native Americans also have it. Basically, if you look in a mirror and draw an imaginary line from the outside corner of your eye straight across to your nose you should be able to tell if the inside corner of your upper eye lid begins at a point below that of the outside corner. Don't try this while you're doing something important like driving. Another way to tell is to place your finger just below the inner eye lid and gently pull the skin down, if you have the fold, it will show. There are also stories of Melungeons having an extra toe or finger at birth, a trait of a large group of people in Turkey. I had a best friend for years who had an extra toe on each foot and who's father was from the North Carolina mountains AND had one of the common Melungeon surnames. I say this to prove the point that you can't go by skin color alone. This friend was tow head blonde and lilly white.

Next time I'll share my favorite theory on the origins of the Melungeons. Now I'll leave ya'll alone to pick at your teeth and go grope the back of your mama's head checkin' for a lump.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Oxford So and So Newspaper

"Oxford's Best Kept Secret"
THE OXFORD SO & SO CUTS RATES:
SUBSCRIPTIONS, RENEWALS, EXTENSIONS ARE
ONLY $10.00 PER YEAR THROUGH 12-31-08
(Only $50 for SIX . SO & SO makes a
GREAT Christmas gift.)
NOW ENTERING ITS FOURTH YEAR !

DEAR FRIEND,

Through Dec. 31 all subscriptions are only $10 for an ENTIRE YEAR !
You may submit a NEW subscription, a RENEWAL, or an EXTENSION,
OR: GIFT subscriptions at this low rate. At least 56 pages of nostal-
gia, clean humor/satire, poetry, etc. ALL SOUTHERN ORIENTED.
NO advertising - all editorial content.

Buy 5 subscriptions (and you can include your own) and you get the
6th FREE. That's right, only $50 for six subscriptions!

NOTE: All new subscriptions will start with the upcoming Nov-Dec
THIRD ANNIVERSARY/CHRISTMAS issue. We are "slap out" of the
current Sep-Oct issue...

Our 25-30 writers each issue range from Federal Judges to Holly
Springs Inmates. And an inordinate amount of ministers.

PLEASE MAIL TO:
THE OXFORD SO & SO
No. 177
1739 University Avenue
Oxford, Mississippi 38655

When you subscribe or buy gift subscriptions you are helping to
support a privately owned journal of true SOUTHERN writing.
Oxford SO & SO receives NO government grants (which would
restrict editorial decisions.) ALSO: "SO & SO" has NEVER ac-
cepted donations! That would also hamper editorial decisions.

Thank you for your time today.

Sincerely,

Richard Burns, Editor
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Use of this form or any paper will be fine.)

ENCLOSED PLEASE FIND ______FOR ____SUBSCRIPTIONS, EXTEN-
SIONS, OR GIFT SUBSCRIPTIONS.

NAME__________________________________________________

ADDRESS ______________________________________________

CITY __________________________STATE_____ ZIP__________

E-MAIL: (Optional, but might come in handy):
---------------------------------------------------------------
SAMPLE BACK ISSUE: $4.00 (our choice)

"SO & SO": Southern Owned & Southern Operated

Saturday, November 1, 2008

WORKING SHARES


After a day playing on the countryside, six-year-old Julie plodded homeward in the falling dusk, carefully following the fence as she crossed the hill. She walked up the steps to her house and stopped abruptly in the doorway. Her mother was bending over the bottom drawer of the chest, trying to stuff in a pillow with the things already in it. Her father, hammer in hand, was dislodging the side rails of the bed from the footboard. Julie saw the darkened area around the slit for the rails where she had bent so many nights to squash the bedbugs as they crawled out, and she could still smell their rankness. Marie was dragging a heavy box from the kitchen, stooping almost double, one hand balancing the pots and pans stacked in it so they would not slide to the floor.

“What’s happenin’?” asked Julie.

“We’re movin’!” exclaimed Marie. “Daddy got us a place.”

“Where’re we goin’?”

Her father looked up from where he had leaned the pieces of the bed against the wall. “We’re gonna move over to Enterprise, on Mr. Bailey’s place.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, Mr. Bailey says I can work shares this year, but I gotta be there tomorrow. He’s still got some hay that he ain’t had time to get in, and if I want the place, I gotta start on it tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Are we gonna walk?” Julie still couldn’t grasp the whole idea.

“Naw, Murray’s gone to see if Mr. Hugo will take us in his truck. He’ll be back directly.”

“Julie,” said her mother, “take that tow sack over there and run out to the garden and pick all the turnip greens you can see how to. We’re gonna need all we can find to take with us.”

“I need a coat,” said Julie. “It’s getting’ cold out.”

“Here,” said Estelle, “throw this quilt over your shoulders. And hurry up. Murray’s gonna get back any minute, and we’ve got to be ready to go so’s we can get there by midnight. Your daddy’s got to get some sleep before he has to get on that hay rake in the mornin’.”

Julie wrapped the quilt around her shoulders and held the extra folds in her hands. She picked up the sack and walked out to the patch. Night had fallen but the moon had not yet risen, and she could hardly distinguish where the grass and weeds ended and the greens began. She knelt down, felt for the roughness of the turnip tops, and began to pick the greens. She crawled methodically through the patch, stuffing handful after small handful into the cloth sack, trailing the loose folds of the quilt after her.

The sack was almost a third full when she heard the sounds of the truck coming down the road, its headlight flickering through the trees as it turned into the bottom. She heard the muted conversation of Murray and Mr. Hugo as they parked the truck and got out. She kept picking. She heard them begin to load the truck with the meager furnishings of the house. She kept picking. She wondered if they had not had time to finish, but she also knew the value of the food she was gathering, so she did not stop to investigate. She picked until the moon began to rise and cast long shadows over her. Finally, the sack would hold no more, and, grasping it by the top, and folding the quilt into her arms so she would not trip over its bottom, she dragged the sack back to the house.

“We’re ‘bout ready to go,” said her father, as he lifted the sack for her. “Looks like you got enough to hold us for a while.”

Julie looked around the only home she had ever known. Gone was the table; gone were the benches; the spot where the stove had been was a vacant cavern, the disconnected stovepipe still sifting soot onto the pine boards of the floor.

The bedroom was equally bare. The only things left in the big room were the nails driven into the two-by-fours that had held coats and extra clothes. Now they, too, were empty, and they cast spike-like shadows on the boards of the wall as the kerosene lamp on the floor flickered and gave out its meager light.

“Bring your quilt with you, Girl,” said her father. “You’ll have to ride in the back of the truck with Marie, and it’s gonna get real cold before we get there, so you’ll have to wrap up good.”

Estelle came back in the house and slowly walked through each room to make sure she was not leaving anything. “It’s a little sad to be movin’,” said Estelle to her husband. “But maybe we’ll have some good neighbors over at Enterprise. Goodness knows, I ain’t had any here.”

Julie walked out of the house with her mother. Her father, lamp in hand, stopped one last time to latch the front door. He blew out the lamp and started slowly across the yard. Mr. Hugo was impatient to be on his way—he had a long night’s drive ahead of him, and he still had to drive back after unloading the truck.

“Better hurry up,” he said, “it’s a long way over there. I don’t mind helpin’ you folks out, but I gotta get back and get me some sleep, too.”

“Don’tcha forget about the cow when you come back by, “ said Mr. Mathis.

“Oh, don’t worry your head about that,” said Mr. Hugo. “I’ll keep her fed and milked ‘til you can get somebody passin’ that way to bring her. Or ‘til you can get back for her.”

“We sure do appreciate your helpin’ us out this way,” said Mr. Mathis.

“Well, that little old calf is measly pay for movin’ you folks, but considering you been such good friends, I reckon fair’s fair. And the missus and me sure can use the milk from the cow for awhile, seein’s ours is dry right now.”

“I’ll be back to get the cow just as soon as I get Mr. Bailey’s hay in, ‘cause we’ll need the milk, too, ‘til we get set up.”

Julie and her mother stopped in the middle of the yard. They turned and looked back at the house, the house where the Mathises had lived for almost ten years. Julie knew no other home, and she looked at the sagging door, at the windows with the rotten screens, at the porch caked with dried red clay from the stompings of many shoes, and she felt a tug at her heart.

“What kinda house will we have at Enterprise, Daddy?”

“Don’t know, Child, didn’t get a chance to look at it, what with Mr. Bailey bein’ in such a hurry and all. But a house is a house, and we are lucky he’s got one empty this time of year. Come on, now, let’s get loaded up and get on our way.”

They continued their way across the barren yard to where the truck was packed and ready to go. Murray and Marie had already seated themselves in the cab.

“Marie,” said her father, “you’re gonna have to get in the back with Julie.”

“Aw, Daddy, it’s gonna be too cold to ride back there!”

“The cab’s too full, what with Murray and your momma and me. Your momma’s gonna have to sit on my lap, now. You go on back there and wrap up good with Julie, and it won’t be long ‘til we get there.’

“Yessir.” said Marie, and she sullenly opened the door and went around to the tailgate of the truck.

Julie found a toehold on the rim of the tire and stepped from it to the edge of the bed of the truck. She climbed up the planks of the side rail, grabbed one end of the table, and pulled herself over the furnishings, piled helter-skelter. She waited while Marie also crawled into the mound and sat down on a chest near the rear of the truck. Julie carefully clambered over the pieces of furniture until she found a mattress behind the truck’s cab. She sat down on it and wrapped the folds of the quilt around her. “Marie, come on back here, and you won’t get so cold. You can get under my quilt.”

“I want to ride in the cab, too,” pouted Marie.

“Come on back with me,” urged Julie.

“Nope!”

Okay, then, just freeze your ‘hind-end off, thought Julie, as she snuggled deeper into the nest she had made for herself. Wonder if there’ll be anybody at our new house for me to play with, Julie mused. The wind flapped a corner of her quilt, and she tightened her hold. Maybe they’ve got a schoolhouse I could go to! She peeked out from under her covers and saw Marie still sitting in the exposed rear of the truck.

“Aw, come on, Marie, it’s cold back there. Come under the quilt so it’ll be warmer!”

“Don’t want under your old quilt!”

“Okay, then.”

As soon as the others had positioned themselves in the cab, she heard Mr. Hugo turn the key in the ignition and start the truck. The engine sprang to life, and slowly, very slowly, the Mathis household moved out across the yard to the main road, the pieces of furniture groaning and settling as the truck picked up speed for the trip to Enterprise.

----------------------------------

Written by: Bettye H. Galloway
bgalloway@watervalley.net

Originally published in The Oxford So and So
Born, reared, and educated in Oxford, Lafayette County, Mississippi; retired
from Mississippi state service (primarily the University of Mississippi) and
as executive vice president of a drug testing laboratory.