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.