Spit!

By Nancy Long

Guided by whoops and shouts, Nancy finds a footpath and runs into the high, dry woods. A half block in, trees and brush give way to a natural clearing bedded with sparse, short grasses. Straight ahead lies a swath of bare, gray dirt, and sweeping over it, a truck tire with Frankie sitting inside it and Benjy atop, straddling the thick rope holding the tire! Up, up, Nancy traces the thick rope, looking like many ropes twisted together, to where it is tied to a high horizontal limb branching from the arched oak. The tire returns to the tree; a third rider jumps on!

When the swing loses height, the riders drag their feet and dismount, barely visible in a cloud of dust. From the highest board step up the tree, Buddy grabs a thinner rope tied above the tire, pulling it to bring the tire, and hands the source of their fun to Shorty. Grabbing the big rope above the tire, Shorty jumps, swings his legs through the tire in midair, and sits inside! The swing swoops down and down—across—up, and up to its farthest and highest point away, to come sweeping down, down—across—and up, up—back to the tree! Nancy holds her breath. The tire and Shorty are gonna hit the tree! Oh, the curved trunk, the swing doesn’t quite reach hit! Alan lunges from a lower step, mounting the top of the tire; two others start up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984560179

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Spit!

No, Ahm tha oldis! Ah deeside what ta do. The taller girl-child’s hands are firmly on her hips.

The boy walks away, the smaller girl on his heels. What yu gonna do? she asks, running to catch up to him.

Yu ull see! he speaks without turning.

Reaching a tall tree in the front yard, the boy wraps his arms and legs around the trunk and begins shinnying up. At the first bough, he grabs the limb with one hand then the second, grunting, and swings his legs from the trunk; his back bows as his legs arch over the limb. Parallel with the limb, he swings upright! The girl watches spellbound before flinching when her brother lets out a primal yell from his perch!

Hitz SO fine up heer. Ah kin see kleen ovur tha howz to tha lake an all tha wayz down tha lane! Therz ah bird nest in tha poyzun bush—he points to the oleander on the opposite side of the path to the front door stoop—an hitz got eggz!

Ah wan up. Ah wan up, the towheaded child pleads in a high-pitched voice, arms raised upward toward her brother.

Yu no yu not big anuff ta klime up this big tree. He steps on branches, going higher.

Ahh-huuuh. The child hugs the tree, jumping, as she sees her brother launch upward!

Kliminz for boyz, BIG boyz is just audible over the sounds of displaced leaves and bark raining down around the girl. Disregarding her pleas, he climbs higher.

Pleeeez. The child’s face is redder now. Her arms sting from contact with the tree!

Oh, alrite. Ahm comin down an help yu. Move away an quit lookin up. Yu ull git stuff in yur iiz!

Squeals of delight mix with sounds of the large stiff magnolia leaves being brushed aside or trampled as the slight boy pushes downward, finding footholds through closely spaced limbs. Preceding him, dislodged debris rains down. He hollers to his sister directly under him to shut her eyes and move away from underneath. On reaching the lowest limb, he straddles it, swings under, loosens his legs, hangs in midair, and drops before his small admirer. Dirty streaks down his sister’s face tell him her tears were real; he understands her strong desire to climb.

Tell yu what. Therz ah ole wud pal let in tha burn hole, an we kin lay hit aginzt tha tree, like ah lattur an yu kin git up to tha furs lim an klime!

Me to! Me to! She hops up and down.

Down the shaded path connecting the front yard and field on the north side of the house, they hurry.

So yu gonna klime tha tree if Ah pull tha pal let all tha wayz ovur, Kottun? he asks, passing under the clotheslines into the short clover before them.

Ahh-huuh!

It pleases him to hear excitement back in her voice.

Leaving the path shaded by the tall dark-barked wild persimmon and light-gray-barked female holly tree, the late morning Florida sun warms their shoulders. The pallet is in the family’s burn hole as he remembers. Leaning in, he grabs one of the wooden strips comprising the square frame as his sister bends, reaching for the opposite end to give her full effort. He pulls the pallet out, over the hole’s mounded sand perimeter.

Now, we arnt gonna tri an karree ah big pal let all tha wayz to tha nolee tree! Put hit down, Kottun. Hitz to hevee!

The frame does not have far to drop before the boy begins dragging it. She grabs hold to help. A rough wood strip pricks her hand, but she says nothing.

Bennnjjjy, Nannnccy, dinnnner!

The kids look at each other, and the pallet goes down. Stink bugs, grasshoppers, and small moths jump and fly from their hiding places in the grasses around the children’s feet. The flurry distracts the children from the amusement of the surprised look on the other’s face at their mama’s summons. Their mother’s call breaks their absorption in their grand plan.

Ahl beet yu! Benjy is off!

Nancy shrieks, pursuing as fast as she can. He reaches the front stoop and is there, holding the screen door open for her, smiling.

Inside, their big sister, Lorraine, is at her place at the table. Their mama directs the two arrivals to the bathroom to wash up. It is a straight shot through the living room, the girls’ bedroom, then the porch. Throughout, the lake breeze meets them head-on. The draft would be pleasing to them were they aware of the midday heat. Crossing the porch diagonally, they enter the bathroom. Benjy turns on the cold-water tap at the small washbasin hanging from the wall, reaches for the soap, and moves around to make room for his sister.

Wen yu git up tha tree, yur gonna see thingz like tha birdz seez em! Yur gonna see on top ah tha howz, an tha graj, an yur gonna see tha lake like hit lookz frum ah airplain! He passes the soap bar.

An nestez? She looks at him.

He fishes the soap bar out of the basin, returning it to her. Ahuh. Look at what chur doin, an hurree up!

With dark water going down the drain and with cleaner hands, they are done. She pulls the towel from the hook behind the door as Benjy cuts off the water.

The children hurry back to the kitchen and take their seats at the large linoleum-covered table as their mama brings over the last of the steaming serving dishes. Smelling the food, the children realize they are hungry.

What were you doing over in the field when your mama called you? their daddy asks from his chair through the low window opening between the living room and kitchen as their mama helps their plates.

Gittin tha lattur.

Pal LET, corrects Benjy. Hitz ah pal let! The boy takes a long drink from his glass of iced tea.

Don’t be dragging things out of the garbage hole, dammit all, kids! Everything over there’s there for a reason, and that’s where it belongs. You can get hurt around that trash hole! There’s broken jars and old cans. Not as much as there used to be before the war, but what’s there is dirty and rusty, and animals mess around there!

Yes, sir!

After Mary helps the children’s plates and hers, their daddy comes to the table, takes his seat, and begins cutting Nancy’s pot roast before helping his plate. Is that understood now? Are you going to stay away from the burn hole? David is looking at Benjy sitting on his other side.

Yes, sir!

It is David Burney’s rule that the children are to eat some of everything their mama cooks for the meal. They like everything they are having—pot roast, rice and gravy, green beans, yellow squash, and biscuits. Their mama helps their plates, knowing how much of each thing to give them so they can clean their plates; that is another rule!

My god, one hundred and fifty thousand troops land on Normandy beaches after an airborne assault of twelve thousand planes, and those damn Germans waiting for them on high cliffs mow them down!

It is commonplace for Mary Reba and Walter David Burney to discuss the war at dinner. They both read The Florida Times-Union daily and listen to radio news day and night.

David butters a biscuit. It amazes me how well you manage with rationing. At first, I could tell the difference when you baked with oleomargarine, but I can’t now. Between rationing and Bessie poisoning herself on the oleander, we’re fortunate there is a butter substitute!

I’m sure you noticed I don’t bake as much.

Does biscuit dough require butter?

Shortening.

Rationing is a small thing for us to do here at home. You were probably spoiling us anyway—fresh bread and cinnamon buns, cakes and pies every day! Our local men and boys are serving all over the globe. Mr. Hawley reports, besides being all over the Pacific, some are in the Aleutians, even Alaska! Some of our young men have graduated from twin-engine flying schools! Richard Norman flies a B-25 Mitchell bomber! Imagine that! Another local boy flew his own plane home to visit his folks! The Cordell boy is now Major Cordell, commissioned in the Philippines! Anson Macy’s a freight engineer on a supply plane that rescued three people in New Guinea!

Our boys have become men, and we’ve lost men! Mr. Hawley says some are in English and Belgium hospitals and German prison camps! I’m proud of our women here at home too, rolling bandages and manning aircraft recognition towers. I would volunteer for a shift at our neighborhood tower if you worked days and Nancy were school-age. Mary lifts her tea glass. And speaking of rationing, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your tires. You’ve had two flats this month?

Yes. It was expected, being my turn to drive. When the four of us started taking turns driving to the shipyard to save gas, we figured we would save on tire wear too. We are saving gas stamps, but whoever drives for the month has at least one flat! We’ve been joking about competing in a tire-changing contest with other carpools. We’ve got quite a system! We jump to it. Each knows his part, we’ve done it so many times. One, two, three, the jack’s bein’ stowed, and we’re climbin’ back in! We laugh, when we’re done with our tires, they’ll be scrap-rubber rejects! People are finding their tires missing off their cars, but we don’t have to worry about anyone stealing ours!

The children finish dinner and ask to be excused. David looks at their plates and excuses them. As they pass between their daddy’s chair and the Coldspot icebox, he gives each a git along pat on the bottom. He will not see them again until nearly this time tomorrow.

Benjy and Nancy break into a run on the path into the field. Under the clothesline, he stops abruptly, pulling his sister close. We bettur not pull tha pal let ovur to tha nolee tree jus yet. Before Nancy can express her disappointment in words, he adds, Membur what Daddee sed bout tha burn hole? Therz lotsa treez ovur heer. Les find uz ahnuthur tree ta klime.

Nancy is happy again. Had she been older, she would have sensed her brother’s pleasure that his idea makes her happy. She hurries to catch up, falling in step behind him as he surveys the trees in the lot as he walks.

Instinctively, at almost four, Nancy wants to be just like her big brother, two years her senior. She wants to be with him, do what he does, and please him.

Ah no, how bout tha oak ovur ther—Benjy points toward the lake—tha one baside tha hukulberree bushez? Tha limz ur kloz tagethur. Wen yu git up, therz lotz ta hold on to!

Nancy starts eastward behind him, skirting a stinging nettle and looking where he pointed toward a midsize tree. At this distance, had she been older, she would have seen the dark treetop leaves making a circle in the blue sky. As they near the oak tree, a bird takes hasty flight away! Nancy swings and looks in the direction of the sound.

Ah mokinbird! Benjy answers the question she is about to ask. At the tree, he wraps his arms around the trunk, sizing up whether she will be able to reach around it.

To thik!

Thik?

Yu kant reech aroun! He stands back, looking up the tree. But tha furs lim iz jus rite if we kin git yu up.

Nancy looks at the limb hopefully.

Yep. Yu kud grab ahold ah tha lim frum tha top ah tha pal let an git up! Mite hav ta giv yu ah boost!

Nancy imagines being up in the tree before realizing Benjy is headed back to the field! She runs to catch up. Out from the shade of the low oak, her eyes are slow to adjust to the open field’s one o’clock brightness. She looks at her feet and sees big brown grasshoppers with red stripes down their sides jumping in the thick grass. Her eyes adjust; she follows her brother and catches up.

He turns his head. Yu wachun whare yur waukun, Kottun? Snakz iz out! Wauk in muh trail!

She slows, looking down, and listens for his voice in order to follow him.

At the place where they abandoned the pallet for dinner, Benjy lifts a side board and begins retracing their earlier steps, past the burn hole, going toward the lake and chosen oak. Nancy tries to grab hold and help. The pallet is raised too high and moving too fast. She jumps aside! Scurrying behind him, she hears his breathing.

Hez wurkun hard for me!

Under the tree, Benjy leans the pallet on the west side of the trunk where the ground is flattest. Nancy steps forward to climb on but is blocked; he adjusts the pallet footing, adjusts it again, studying the angle of the wooden frame against the tree.

Com meer. Benjy reaches for Nancy’s shoulder and pulls her where he wants her, sizing her up against the pallet. She steps on to the bottom rung, reaching for the top board. Wate ah minut! He crowds her out, pulls the pallet base farther from the tree, takes hold of the sides, and works the frame back and forth roughly to settle it against the trunk. We hav ta wach out. See tha wobbul? If Ah doan git hit rite in tha middul, hitll swing aroun an fall! Wach!

Benjy climbs to the top rung and grabs the tree trunk. The pallet sways from side to side while he adjusts his feet to plant them evenly. From there, he can easily pull himself onto the first limb, and he does! As his right foot lifts off its support, the pallet reels to the left hard, and the right side swings powerfully out from the tree!

Git bak!

Nancy jumps back just in time as the careening pallet spins around and falls heavily behind the tree! She looks to see what happened to her brother. He is sitting in the tree, looking at her.

See? Yu gonna hav ta be kareful klimin on tha pal let, Benjy directs from his enviable perch.

Ah-huh. Nancy took it all in but moves in closer.

Doan git rite undur me. Yu ull git stuff in yur iiz!

She steps back.

Ahm comin down! Swinging around the limb he’s sitting on, he hangs and drops to the ground. Yu still wanna klime tha tree? Hitz not ah good tree ta klime, gotz lil thorn branchez. See? Ah got stuk on muh armz an legz jus sittin on tha furs lim!

Les pik berreez. Mama make ah pi!

Les chek tha hukulberreez.

The kids move to the head-high bushes clumped around the nearby oak.

To soon, Benjy reports. See? Lil an green. He pops one in his mouth, chews, and spits! Eat one! Hit ull nachurly pukur up yur mouth!

Nancy picks a blushing berry and pops it in her mouth. Pthaaw! She coughs and spits!

See? Ah tole yu!

Stinnkkkuunnbug on hit!

Yu bit ah stinkkbug? How bout tha berree? Did yu taste hit?

Jus stinkkun bug!

Hitz awile bafor berreez ull be big an ripe. What chu wanna do now?

Les pik blakberreez.

Membur how they wuz driin up? If therz sum, hitl be in tha shade along tha fenz.

They head toward the field fence marking the northwest property line, kicking up sand, skirting the prickly pear cactus in the high dry corner.

Benjy stops to look at a yellow sand mound. Les see if Miztur Gofurz ben outa hiz hole. He squats to look in the hole next to the sand bank.

Miztur Gofur? Nancy’s looking at the hole, squatted beside him.

Kud be Mizzuz Gofur! She hasta be mitee tuff Mizzuz Gofur kauz sum of em sharez holez with rattlurz!

Nancy moves back from the mound, her eyes big.

Snakz kant dig big holez! Ahm thinkin Miztur Gofurz koolin hit inside ah hiz hole taday.

He goz in wen hitz hot? Nancy looks at Benjy for agreement.

He nods. Les keep wachin an chekin. We kach Miztur Gofur one day, comin or goin. They move on toward the fence and the berry brambles.

Naaancy! Beeenjy!

Yes, May Am, the kids answer together.

Time to rest.

The two change courses, going south toward the house.

We kin chek on tha berreez aftur yu rest. Benjy knows his sister doesn’t like that she has to rest midday.

Across the field, past the burn hole, under the clothesline, and down the shaded path to the house they go. They arrive at the small cement stoop. He opens the screen door for her. She takes a high step into the kitchen. All surfaces are clean, cleared of dishes, and pots have been washed, dried, and put away after their noontime meal.

Hi, punkins, Mary greets them from the living room couch, one shoeless foot four inches from touching the floor, the other tucked under her. The children go to her. She pulls them close. She doesn’t try to quiet their voices like she does when their daddy is sleeping. Mr. Burney has left for work.

Have you been having a big time?

Both kids talk before Benjy gives the floor to Nancy, seeing her excitement. In her words, Nancy relives almost climbing a tree and Benjy’s jumping into the tree and the pallet crashing!

Did you enjoy yourself too? Mary asks her son when Nancy finishes.

Yes, May Am!

Well, how about washing your faces and hands? You can have the cold pop waiting for you in the kitchen before Nancy lies down for a little while.

The children wash up and hurry to the kitchen for their glasses of grape pop on ice. They drink thirstily while Benjy makes plans for the afternoon.

CHAPTER 2

Benjy Goes to School

The morning sun is well up in the sky when Nancy wakes alone in the bed she shares with her sister. Arriving in the kitchen rubbing her eyes, she asks simply over humming and swishing, Bengee? She steps on clothes piles, going to her mother, who is feeding sheets into the agitating Easy wringer washer.

He’s gone to school with Lorraine, honey! School starts today, Mary replies cheerily, rubbing her youngest child’s back. Benjy will be six years old next month, October 6! Ready for your breakfast, Nancy Frances?

Nancy looks in her mama’s face. Skool?

Remember last week when we went to the schoolhouse and found Benjy’s and Lorraine’s classrooms and met their teachers? Benjy can go to school now with other girls and boys his age. He will learn to read and write.

Me?

When you are almost six years old too, you can go.

Marrah?

No, baby. In two years.

Ah be six?

Just before you are six, ahhuh. How about some oatmeal and toast?

Bengee eak oakmeel?

He sure did!

Mary Burney stirs the contents of a small saucepan at the stove, adding milk and sugar. You haven’t sung our washday song, ‘Supersuds, Supersuds, wash your clothes with Supersuds!’ There is no reaction from the child. Would you like to make your toast? She reaches around the end of the washing machine rolled in front of the sink to retrieve a cereal bowl from the metal cabinet.

Cimmon tost.

All right, cinnamon toast it is! Go get the bread and put a slice in the toaster.

Nancy watches her mother run clothes through the wringer while she eats her breakfast without relish. The sound of the washer motor is not as pleasant as the nice music her mama has playing in the living room. She carries her bowl and cup toward the sink.

I’ll take those, punkin. After you get dressed, do you think you can feed the chickens and gather the eggs for Mama? I’m going to make a pineapple upside-down cake when I finish the wash.

Ahuh.

That will be a big help, honey.

In the room she shares with her sister, Nancy finds her overalls and sits on the floor to put her legs in. She stands and pulls the faded hand-me-downs up, over her cotton underpants and T-shirt she slept in until her toes peek out the frayed hems. She reaches behind for a strap and, finding one, brings it over her shoulder and works at hooking it on the metal button in front. Looking in the chest she shares with her sister, she finds socks in her drawer and drops them in a boot, one of a pair Benjy has outgrown. She picks up the boots and carries them over the threshold onto the sunny, warm porch floor and crosses to the screen door. She steps out on the wooden steps and sits down.

Benjy is not here. There is no reason to hurry today. She looks across the backyard, down to the lake. Flat green lily pads, big as dinner plates, are mere green dots from here; they’re lying on the water’s surface but not in the center.

They not movin an wavin. Tha win wavz em, Bengee sed. Pritee flowurz stik up. Ah kant see em. Beez an dragun fliz likez em. Daddee took uz in ah boat an Ah saw em. Shinee watur, muh iiz cloz! Tha big wite birdz got long legz an eakz watur bugz, Bengee sez. They go in surkulz on tha watur.

Hearing cackling reminds Nancy she is to gather eggs for her mama. She works at pulling on her socks and boots and pulls the laces tight as she can but doesn’t tie them. Benjy ties them. This is a different day. She sticks the laces in her boots like he said to do when he can’t tie them and starts for the garage. She passes the small male holly tucked under a huge moss-draped parental branch of the giant oak growing beside the garage.

The pry bar, which Benjy said is used to get the lids off the metal feed drums, is on top of a drum. She works to get the end between the lid and the rounded top like he does. Just as she’s about to give up, a side rises and slides off with a clatter. She takes a big breath.

Ah did hit! She feels good. Tha drumz to hi. Ah gotz ta git tha korn!

Looking around the dirt-floored, musty-smelling garage, she spies her mama’s milking stool and fetches it. Standing on the stool, she bends low and reaches for the coffee can inside and scoops up some of the barrel’s yellow contents.

Nancy feels tall—aware that something is different, a proud-of-herself sense she is too young to diagnose—while carrying the corn out of the dark garage and around into the bright sun-cloaked chicken pen. Immediately, the chickens rush the pen door, clucking and eyeing one another nervously. She stops, taken aback!

Ah no! She goes down the side of the pen, throwing handfuls of corn through the wire. The chickens go right to pecking it up, ignoring her. Ah kin git tha eggz!

She unlatches the door and enters, throwing the remainder of the corn to keep the chickens busy while she’s at the nest boxes. This is the part she likes best, looking into the straw and gathering the brown and white eggs! With the care of a four-year-old, she places each egg in the can she’s firmly holding and rechecks the boxes until she is satisfied she has all the eggs. She hurries out and latches the door.

Up the slight incline toward the house she goes, passing the porch steps, taking the sand path along the north side of the house, egg bounty pressed tightly to her chest in the crook of her arm. At the northwest corner of the house, she turns, takes twenty steps to the kitchen door stoop, and steps up at its lowest point. Reaching high for the screen door handle then easing the door open, she awkwardly climbs over the high threshold into the kitchen.

Gotz em, Mama!

Her mama’s warm smile makes the child’s heart swell.

You got Mama’s eggs, punkin, all by yourself? Mary hurries from the washer and reaches with both hands for the eggs and leans to give her daughter a big kiss. Thank you sooo much! Let me put them in my basket for washing, and you can take the can back for tomorrow morning!

Bengee hom?

No, baby. Not yet. Run this can back out to the drum, hon.

The twang of the screen door’s stretching spring couples with the scuffling heels of loose, oversized boots passing over the threshold and is followed by the door’s banging closed.

Nancy goes around the corner of the house, saunters halfway down the length, and drops suddenly to her knees in the sand under the eave. Finding a twig, she sticks it in a small round sand indention just inside the roof’s drip line.

She circles the twig in the hole, singing, Doodlebug, doodlebug, yur howz ziz on fire. Doodlebug, doodlebug, yur howz ziz on fire.

As she repeats her song and rotations, she watches for a small sandy-looking bug to appear on the surface of the disturbed cone.

Nancy, Mary calls from the front corner.

Nancy jumps up and runs. Yes, May Am!

Her mama and a basket of wet clothes are on the stoop.

Get your wagon, and you can help me hang the clothes.

Nancy is off and running to the magnolia tree in the northwest corner of the front yard where she and Benjy left their wagon last evening. Getting to it, she remembers filling it with magnolia seed cones before being called in to supper. She pulls the red wagon over; brown cones fall on her feet. With a strong push, the wagon rights onto four wheels.

She grabs the handle and hurries to the stoop. Gotz hit, Mama.

Mary maneuvers two laundry baskets in. Do you want to pull or steady our load, honey?

Ah pull, Mama.

It’s heavy. Wet dungarees and sheets are very heavy.

Nancy manages to roll the wagon downhill in the loose sand a few feet before the ground begins a slight rise at the mouth of the field path.

Seeing her daughter’s struggle, Mary says, Good job, Nance. Let’s trade places now. You steady while I pull. The clotheslines are reached without mishap. Can you hand me the clothes, my helper, as I hang them?

Kay.

Mary notices her daughter’s dirty hands. Oh well, these dungarees and overalls see far worse! Dark blue, even faded blue, won’t show those little handprints, she thinks.

The heaviest clothing is dispatched to the center of one of two long clotheslines and propped up with a tall support pole. Nancy runs with a butterfly in the field, laughing, waiting for it to alight, as sheets are hung at the center of the second supported line. Mary checks the sky, hoping for good drying weather—billowing white clouds puff in blue skies. She notices sheet hems moving slightly in a breeze, a mourning dove calling softly from the woods. She breathes in air that is fresh, almost crisp for summer.

Her heart is grateful. Oh my, thank you, Lord God. Your creation is magnificent! Thank you!

Nancy arrives to pull the wagon to the kitchen. Mary hurries in to resume the towel load left soaking.

Mother and daughter repeat trips throughout the morning until the baskets are empty, both clotheslines full. When Mary steps out from between the lines, she skirts the surrounding areas. Nancy, who is poised, wagon handle in hand, waits.

Seeing her daughter’s puzzlement, Mary says, Oh, I’m just checking that there are none of those big pokeweeds with those juicy purple berries the birds like so much! They sure can stain my white sheets!

The two are heading for the kitchen when Mary asks, How would you like to have a little picnic? We can spread a cloth in the shade and have our lunch outside, just you and me.

The wagon stops by the female holly. We hav leminaid?

Sure can! You can help me make it.

Nancy claps her hands and cheers before picking up the wagon handle and moving on to the house.

We have a few things to do, and then you can load the picnic wagon. Mary opens the door for her helper. Run to the bathroom and wash your hands real good.

Mary disconnects the washer and rolls it back into the corner. What a difference a washing machine makes! True, I haven’t always done my own washing. When Benjy was born three days before Lorraine was a year old, a young girl from Chaseville helped with the wash. This used washer has made my life so much easier these three, four years. What a blessing it was to get it after Nancy was born!

Nancy makes four trips to the wagon with picnic food and supplies. After each of the child’s goings and comings, Mary closes her eyes, expecting the twang of the screen door spring and the anticipated bang of the door back into the jamb.

I think we’ve got everything for our picnic, Nance.

Nancy gets the wagon moving as Mary steps off the stoop. Going left, the two round the kitchen corner of the house. Passing the kitchen’s open drain area, Mary notes the height of the Spanish needle weeds with their white daisylike flowers and prickly seed heads.

I’ll mention to David the weeds need slinging. I don’t think he ever comes around the house this way.

Past the chinaberry tree, across the driveway, and downhill toward the lake they go, Nancy pulling the wagon and Mary beside her, carrying the lemonade.

Mary sighs. This is our first picnic without Lorraine and Benjy. He pulled the wagon, and Lorraine carried our pitcher. When I was thinking about what I would prepare for supper, I planned to make the upside-down cake when the wash was finished, but Nancy’s excitement about picnicking was contagious! I can make that simple cake after this relaxing, special time with my daughter.

Nearing the lake, Mary looks about. How about over there for our picnic? She nods toward a shaded area under a large water oak fifteen feet from the water, near the property’s southern boundary.

Nancy pulls the wagon to the chosen area, drops the handle, pulls out the oilcloth, and makes efforts to spread it.

I’ll park the wagon at the edge of the cloth, honey, and leave the lemonade and our glasses in so they don’t spill.

Kay. Nancy places two plastic plates and napkins on the cloth as Mary slips off her shoes and sits down to fill their glasses.

Handing Nancy her sandwich, Mary says, Thank you, Lord, for this bright, sunny washday and your beautiful outdoors. Please watch over our soldiers and all the children starting school today and keep them all safe. Thank you for our nourishment. Amen!

Bengee?

Yes, Benjy and Lorraine and all the schoolchildren.

Mary smiles at her daughter biting her sandwich. Unwrapping her own, she takes a deep breath, looking about. This is so peaceful! We are going to do this more often! We have dinner midday when David is home, but the children and I can picnic at suppertime often, when he’s at work.

A squirrel begins making a racket overhead, interrupting her thoughts. The two look up in the heavy bows to find him.

Mary Reba Courtright Burney looks out over the lake. I have loved Arlington since the first day Dad, Ms. Ethel, and I visited. From that day, I imagined living in the community, and I was delighted Dad did too.

Now eleven years later, there isn’t anywhere I would rather be than right here on the west side of this wild Lake Lucina, beautiful water oaks at her shoreline, live oaks in the yard, slim cedars lining the driveway, magnolias in the front yard, holly trees on one side, a soapberry and chinaberry on the other, a persimmon tree and a wild orange tree sweetening the air every spring, all spread over these almost two acres I call home. I’m so thankful I live here. This house and Dad’s and several small cottages beside his are the only homes on the lake. Dad said this house is a shotgun-type cracker house when he deeded the property to me after David and I started our family. What a blessing it was, living near Dad. He walked or came over on horseback for a visit every day. He would have loved sitting here, having lunch with his daughter and the granddaughter he didn’t get to meet!

I think about Dad every day. He surprised me at boarding school, collecting me a week before graduation to come South with him and Ms. Ethel! I wish I had asked him how long he had wanted to move from Randolph, New York, to Florida. I just remember he said he was waiting for me to finish school. How exciting it was, coming down the waterways to Florida. What a graduation present that was! Was it because we knew we were nearing our destination not long after entering the St. Johns River that the shore seemed to beckon us? I remember seeing the great, dignified homes Dad was told had been centers of plantations, acres and acres under cultivation, until the Civil War, when plantations were divided up. The once-grand storied homes with surrounding porches on all levels peeked out at us through openings of overgrown flowering bushes and native trees. Dad was told citrus groves thrived until severe freezes wiped them out in the mid to late 1890s. Steps up the sloping riverbanks to bear dwellers and guests to and from their personal steamboats remained.

A traveling companion pointed out high banks as we passed here and the Bigelow Plantation mansion, Floral Bluff, that gave the community its name. The late afternoon sun highlighted towering oaks on the high bluffs as streamers of gray moss swayed in the breeze beside grand magnolias dotted with large white flowers. When told the area’s name, Dad commented that Floral Bluff was named well. There were boatyards on this side of the river, possibly why there were so many docks and boats in front of homes. Floral Bluff, at one time, was the ferry boat landing for travel between Arlington and Jacksonville on the opposite shore, where we could see wharfs and ships.

We semisettled down the river in East Palatka, the barge destination, and forayed from there, looking for a permanent place to settle in. One day Dad made it a point to find Floral Bluff. We were drawn back many times the following weeks.

As we became familiar with the welcoming rural Arlington community, Dad learned a good many families had work and pleasure horses, milk cows, and pets. Folks we met encouraged him to consider settling in the area when they learned he was a veterinarian. After coming to Lake Lucina one day, Dad’s search was over! Just across Chaseville Road, the lake is considered to be in the Egleston Heights section. I guess Dad’s settling here was meant to be, as opportunities presented themselves and Doc Courtright purchased the land on the west and south sides of the lake, and we settled in the house under the oaks on the southwest corner.

Kin Ah hav dizzurt, Mama?

Mary’s gaze at the peaceful lake and surroundings before her and thoughts of how she came to be in this serene setting are interrupted by the here and now. She looks at her daughter, who has eaten everything but her sandwich crusts.

Sure can, love.

The child loosens waxed paper from her Toll House cookies, turns them over, and examines the bottoms. She and her sister helped bake them, and one batch stayed in the oven too long. She helped scrape dark crumbs off the bottoms.

Bengee havin kookeez?

Yes, he and Lorraine have sandwiches and cookies.

He comin hom wen he eakz kookeez?

They’ll be coming home about two thirty. Look at that blue heron! I bet he’s catching some nice fish, standing so still.

Watur bugz!

Mary chuckles. Those long legs help him wade out in the water without getting his feathers wet.

Nancy looks down, trying to head off ants coming on the tablecloth. Wharz Daddee?

Your daddy is off today. He went fishing.

Nancy is on her stomach, watching ants going for her bread crusts. Instead of feeling revived from lunch, her daughter, Mary sees, has unwound; the usual brightness in her eyes is gone. Mary reaches and pulls her little one close and wraps her arms around her. Nancy rests her head on her mama’s chest.

Mary closes her eyes and rocks back and forth, humming. Hush, little baby, don’t you cry. Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby. I’d best treasure priceless moments like these. Today, Lorraine and Benjy are off the place and away from my protection. In two years, this little one will be too!

Mary feels Nancy relaxing, and looks down at her. Sunrays speckle her face from openings in the tree canopy above; she is trying to keep her eyes open. Let’s load up our wagon, little one, and fold up our cloth.

Nancy crawls across to her plate of bread crusts and half a cookie, gets up, goes to the edge of the water, and flings as hard as she can.

Aghhhhh! Mama!

Mary looks up. Nancy points at the plate in the water, looking at her.

Oh dear.

Ah throwd tha bred an kookee. Nancy is about to cry.

I bet Benjy can get that plate out with a rake when he gets home, Mary says brightly, hoping to make her daughter feel better. Don’t worry about it, punkin. The grass will keep it from floating away.

The wagon is loaded. Do you want to pull or push?

Nancy heads to the back as Mary takes a last look at the nearly round, deceptively colored lake taking on the blue of the sky.

Such a beautiful piece of America! Mary feels the push of the wagon, and she pulls. I will take time out for myself more often, even if it is just to sit on the porch steps and enjoy the beauty!

Crossing the sandy driveway, she feels weary. She was up at five to make David breakfast and pack him a lunch. The first load of wash was rinsing when Lorraine and Benjy ate breakfast. But overriding the heaviness of her feet this noontime is the renewed fullness in her soul.

Being outside in the glory of God’s handiwork reminds me how much he loves us. Blessed assurance!

Inside, Mary suggests Nancy go to her room and take off her boots while she puts picnic things away.

When Nancy returns, she asks again, Bengee comin hom?

Right after your rest. How would you like a story?

Yes, May Am!

Nancy chooses Mother Goose from the catchall table and sits on the couch, turning pages to choose a story.

Mary is resting when BANG! She raises up on her elbow and glances at the Little Ben on the mantel as her son tromps in, followed by Lorraine. Mary swings her legs around and scoots to the edge of the couch until her feet can touch the floor. She is up and reaches out to receive and hug her children.

Ahm not goin ta skool no more!

Ahuuuh! Everbodee has ta go ta skool! Ahv ben tellin em! Lorraine woefully looks in her mother’s face while passing through to go change.

Oh my, son! Mary looks at the hot, flushed face of her disheartened boy. "Let’s get you a