CHAPTER FOUR

REVERIE

Dick, there are so many bits and pieces that come floating down upon me, like wisps of a distant cloud. They shimmer somewhere between fact and fancy, and then fix themselves a little, and I begin to see them more clearly.

And then the wisps turn to memories--memories that have been kneaded and molded for sixty years. They are like a fine vase, still wet and pliable, that is longer, then shorter; thicker then thinner, as a master craftsmen seeks a size and form suitable for fine flowers. And when the vase has been hardened, who is to say that it is a little longer or a little shorter than it should have been?

One such vase is molded below the hill, where Munner and Grandpa lived, long before I was born. It is molded from tales from Mama's knee, from Munner's knee, and from what little a small boy's eyes may have seen.

I don't know when the little settlement across the road was born, or when it died. I think it was named Richardson. It was a typical frontier village that gave birth to many exciting tales.

Then we move on down to Mom's young girlhood; to the time Wade Huddleston found the partridge nest beneath the cabbage head, and Mom cooked the eggs in her play skillet; to the time John Whiteley caught the huge turtle beneath the foot-log, and to the subsequent feast in Viney's cabin, with Mom the guest of honor.

Then there may be my own vague memories of the house and yard; a frame house with its chimney sitting low to the ground on the west, and a side porch standing three feet high on the east; an apple orchard to the west, on a hillside that began abruptly at the fence, and brought down torrents of water when it rained; a small foot-bridge to a swinging gate before the door; and down the road a hundred feet or so a wide gate that opened to a sandy lane. This led to the barn, perhaps two hundred feet away. There was a large corn crib to the right and a large barn on the left. The barn was right on the west bank of the creek, which had changed directions just before it crossed the road, and was now running due south.

And then, finally, a tragic night years later, when the old house burned to the ground. They all went except Munner and me; I was too young and she was to heart-broken. We just lay there on our bed in our house on top of the hill, and watched the reflected shadows of the flames dance on the wall. They danced higher and higher, and I thought surely they were coming in our window. But then dear old Munner's tears must have drowned the flames, for they dimmed and flickered and died. And when they were gone, so also was the last vestige of the home she had shared with her beloved.

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Another such vase is Uncle Thee's accident, so many, many years ago. He owned some property near the Sligo Crossing, including a saw mill.

One day a message came to Aunt Low that he had been critically injured in a mill accident. She sent word to Mom and Munner, and soon thereafter, she and Lillian and Herman went flying by in a wagon. Aunt Lou was waving her arms and screaming toward the house that Thee had been killed. Munner replied in kind, for this was her eldest living and her only son. Herman was whipping the team with all his might, as though the Old Boy were right behind them.

The team survived that grueling race against the clock, and when they got to the river, they found Uncle Thee badly injured, but not as bad as they had been led to believe.

That Smith and Davis stock was right sturdy, and he recovered completely.

Again, a long, long time ago, there was a little Dearman boy we called Shug. He was Jim John's younger brother. He was in my class in school, perhaps our first year. One day he fell off a calf, and sustained a wound from which tetanus developed. We called it lock-jaw.

This was before antibiotics, and Shug died; Needlessly it seems from this vantage point.

This was a crushing blow to me. I think it was my first encounter with death. They held his service at the Methodist church. We sang "Somewhere the Sun is Shining" and "We Shall Meet but We Shall Miss Him, There Will be One Vacant Chair."

Over the years, when I have heard these songs, memories of my little friend come flooding back to me. Mr. Bob, Miss Era and Jim John are gone, and I doubt if many people remember Shug.

I'll tell you another old one. When our cow would go dry, we bought milk and butter from Mr. Jim and Miss Hallie Bond. They lived on the Bright Hill Road, about two hundred yards beyond Gray's Branch.

It was my job to pick up these products about twice a week. I would turn right at the Cheatham corner, go past Cousin Sookie's place, and then turn left on the Bright Hill Road. The first stop after the cemetery was Mr. Bob West's jack barn, right on the branch on the east side of the road. The little boy's of course, were intrigued by that establishment, and my milk and butter trips sometimes would be delayed until one of Mr. Bob's attendants shooed me on.

I always enjoyed visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Bond and their daughter, Clara Belle, who married Dixie Calhoun.

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The Newlyweds moved into a new house on a new street near the origin of Gray's Branch. I think the town got some water from that fine spring, years before my time. It was one of our favorite playgrounds. We found considerable footage of lead pipe just underground which probably had served as water pipe. But the greatest attraction was the tall, slender willow trees; we climbed to their tops and rode them to the ground when the wind was high.

Ah! Those were the days!

Speaking of springs, do you remember Driver's Spring? It was down creek a little from Pa's meadow, and on the left. It flowed out of a rocky bluff, clear as the finest crystal, and so cold it would curl your toes and make your teeth ache as you drank it.

Many the time I have lain on my belly over that beautiful water hole, pushed the black spiders out of my way, and drank, and drank, and drank until I could hold no more. Then, I'd turn over on my back and gaze at the blue sky coming through the trees, wondering what was beyond that blue, and not knowing that Heaven was all around me.

The branch ran quickly into the creek, increasing its size and lowering its temperature. The swimming hole just below was considerably colder than those upstream. The creek grew as it ran, and by the time it reached Webb's Mill, was a great big stream. We would call it a river in Texas. Through young eyes, the mill pond just had to be the largest body of water in the whole world, and a walk across the dam the most terrifying experience.

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