Childhood Memories That Evolved Into "The Journey"

Mother and Mammaw struggled each day to keep things going. Mammaw had already sold her hogs, and come late summer, after the hay and dried corn were used up through the winter, and the fresh grazing was gone, the rest of the livestock had to be sold. I heard them talking quietly, and I knew Mammaw couldn’t stay on the farm. As they talked, I crept to the kitchen safe where the cornbread, cakes and pies were kept. I got a big piece of cornbread and wrapped it in a rag. I had my own jar of buttermilk that sat on a back porch shelf during cold weather. I carried my food to the corn crib, and after making sure a chicken snake wasn’t looking for a warm place out of the wind, I settled back among the dried ears of corn and for a nine year old, I did some serious thinking. I felt guilty about wanting to leave the farm. I guess somehow, I associated this with Mammaw having to leave next fall.

Childhood Memories That Evolved into "The Journey"

Shortly after this visit, my grandfather passed away. I remember Mammaw kneeling by the old brown leather sofa he lay on after he died. She put her cheek to his face, and although I was only nine, I knew this was a private time. I turned and quietly left the room.
Several weeks later, she began visiting her children. I could hardly wait for our turn. After she arrived, I sat close by and watched her crochet. She smelled of wood smoke, ham gravy, and bed linens that had sunned all day. I had no idea that later on, my Mother, my sister, and I would live with Mammaw for a while and that our nightly visits in front of a roaring fire would set the stage for my historical fiction novel, The Journey.
After we moved in with Mammaw, the following winter was hard. We walked through sleet and snow to catch the school bus. I look back now and know there was beauty everywhere, but the magic of visiting the farm while Granddaddy lived was gone. This was home now, and the harsh reality of everyday living was disappointing. I missed my old school mates, and the distant thump of pumping oil wells.
One January morning, my sister and I trudged through melted snow on our way to the bus stop. I looked at the field of frost covered corn stalks with their dried blades rattling in the cold wind. This was Granddaddy’s last corn crop. Last summer, he had lifted me astride a mule named Kate, and I rode up and down the rows for a while as Granddaddy laid by the corn. My red straw hat perched atop my head, but even then, sweat ran down my face and made tiny brown ringlets spill out from under my hat. Kate was sweating too, and the seat of my overalls was wet. I would have stayed on that old mule all day, but Granddaddy said, “Let’s not make Kate work any harder than she has to. You run over yonder and sit in the shade. It’ll soon be dinner time.”
I sat underneath a big walnut tree, and my overalls were dry by dinner time. We put Kate in the lot, then watered and fed her. Granddaddy wouldn’t work her on such a sweltering evening. I was already making plans to visit again when it came time to gather the crop. I would get to ride Kate as she pulled the wagon, and this time, it wouldn’t be as hot.
I sloshed along in my galoshes under a clear sky, but patches of snow still clung to the hillsides. Red mud was everywhere, and the walk took longer. The bus was waiting, and when I tried to run, my feet went flying. A long woolen scarf was wrapped around my head several times and tied. This cushioned my head, but my backside hit hard in the red mud. Nothing was hurt except my pride, but tears stung my eyes as I crawled on the bus. We had a strict driver, so no one dared laugh. As I settled into my seat, I thought, “Cussed old school, I hate it anyway.” Then I worried all day that I could have had such an evil thought.

Childhood Memories That Evolved Into "The Journey"

After the visiting calmed down, my first stop was her bedroom. I stood quietly by the victrola, staring at the small white dog on the RCA label. I was missed within a few minutes and shooed out, but I didn’t mind. My exploring had just begun.
I went with Mammaw to gather eggs. She always cautioned me not to put my hand in a nest without first checking for chicken snakes. She unchained the crib door and I threw down some dried ears of corn. We shelled this off the cob and fed the chickens. I raced over and sat on the old iron rake that rested beneath a huge pine. I pretended I was driving horses and raking hay. She smiled, and went about her work.
After supper, everyone moved to the front porch for more visiting. I sat beside Mammaw in the porch swing. Shadows danced across the porch as clouds covered the moon, then scurried on by. The swing slowly creaked back and forth, and my eyelids began to get heavy.
I slept on the screened back porch and later awoke to the calling of hoot owls. Tall pines surrounded open fields, and I wondered which trees the owls were in. The wind blew softly, and limbs on a cherry tree scrubbed against the screen. I reminded myself that morning would soon come and there would be cherry jam on Mammaw’s hot biscuits.

Childhood Memories That Evolved Into "The Journey"

When I think of my maternal grandparents, Lona and Charlie Stegall, memories come flooding back of childhood visits to the farm that they homesteaded in Union County, AR. They became the parents of nine children, and lost a daughter at the age of 18 months. The other children grew up on the farm and moved away, except for Aunt Trudy who married and settled across the hollow. I looked out the car window and strained to see the roof of her house as we bounced along the corduroy road, headed for Mammaw's. My grandmother heard us coming and stood out front, her brown hair in a bun and laughing green eyes in a tanned face that was weathered from outside chores. She hugged me, and I felt the strength in her arms. I dug around in her apron pockets, and to a nine year old, anything I came out with was a treasure. To be continued!

The Dreaded Mississippi River Crossing

The Journey is exciting, historical fiction, that tells the story of Lona and Charlie Stegall joining a wagon train in North Carolina and coming to Union County, Arkansas to homestead. The wagons had crossed several rivers, but the worst was ahead. Even in 1899, the grapevine was alive and well. Lona stepped outside the wagon for a breath of fresh air before going to bed. She overheard excited voices and, under cover of darkness, went closer to listen. They would cross the Mississippi by ferry, and the voice went on to say, he sure hoped the horses didn't bolt and jump off the ferry like some had done, never to be recovered in those sink holes. Lona pretended to be sleeping when Charlie crawled into bed, but she lay awake for hours, and then dreamed of horses being sucked under by whirlpools and wagons floating down the river.
The next morning, there were dark circles under her eyes. By noon, the river was in sight. A big cheer went up from the wagon train. Lona strained to see Arkansas soil and promised herself if she ever reached their homestead, she'd be quite content not to look at another river.
Two wagons at a time were driven onto the ferry. The current was swift, and the ferry hit the other side too fast. Wagons groaned and horses fought to keep their balance. Children cried, and men cursed. Then it was Charlie and Lona's turn. Lona crawled up on the seat of the wagon and and took the reins. Charlie stood by the team. The ferry picked up speed with the current, and Lona looked down into that churning mass of water. Charlie hollered, "Get ready for a rough landing, Lona." The ferry landed with a hard thud, and Lona was thrown underneath the foot board. The wagons shuddered, chickens squawked and flapped, and the horses stomped and pranced. Lona scrambled to her feet in time to see Charlie's hat float away. She looked down into the river and screamed his name.

My historical fiction book, The Journey, is published.

The Journey is the story of my maternal grandparents, Charlie and Lona Stegall, who came by wagon from North Carolina to carve a living out of the wilderness of Union County, Arkansas. My grandmother gave birth to nine children, shot cougars, and helped my grandfather wrestle a living from the land. If you love to read about happenings in the 1800s, this is the book for you.

Purchase or read about The Journey on http://www.amazon.com/
or
Send money order or check for $23.00(includes shipping) to:
Frances Bennett
1359 Hwy. 3121
Spearsville, La 71277
francesbennett7@gmail.com