Peeridge Kids: A Family Legacy

By Eva Davis

This book starts at the funeral of her father, Eddie Gravitt. She is talking with his spirit and recalling the days of her youth. You can feel her grief and sadness as she recalls the days of her childhood and that of her siblings growing up in rural Missouri in the forties and fifties. You will feel the trauma of a poor family trying to survive the depression. She describes all the hardships and the love for her family and her parents. She shows immense pride in her father. He never gave up trying to support his family, though his job skills were limited by not being able to read or write. She tells how he became one of the most respected antique dealers in Missouri. This book is the actual story of a family's hardships. It is not fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885051194

Book preview

Prologue

Daddy was an uneducated man. He could neither read nor write but was gifted with many skills and talents. He was a gifted storyteller and an avid gardener with an unbelievable green thumb and had an incredible knowledge of antiques. Even his unique way of expressing himself was a gift. He never met a stranger and was very passionate about what he called his treasures in life—Mom, his children, his grandchildren, and his antiques. His love for his wife, children, and grandchildren was a very strong and very deep love. At times, it was even a domineering kind of love. Dad had a beautiful smile that could light up the room. When he laughed, his laughter would become contagious to everyone around. He was a charmer; a flirt; possessive; demanding; very, very hot-tempered; extremely loving; and very, very special—one of the most charismatic people I have ever met. At six feet, one inch, he was a towering force in all our lives. Dad believed that life’s rules were simple—work hard, be thrifty, plan for tomorrow, and be totally and completely devoted to your family. His strongest belief in life was that God held the key to everything if we only trusted and believed in him.

My mother was as broad as she was tall. She was narrow-minded, stubborn, and unforgiving and held lifelong grudges. However, when she gave her love to someone, she gave an intense amount, and she was fiercely loyal to those she loved. My dad was the very center of her universe. Her children and grandchildren were secondary to Dad, but her love for them was real and powerful. Mom was honest to the point of being rude. She never made a promise to anyone that she did not keep. In fact, a promise made was a promise she kept to the letter. Our mother was without a doubt a very intense person.

My parents shared a love that could singe the corners of the bedsheets. They survived fifty-six years of marriage on lots of courage, understanding, forgiveness, tolerance, acceptance, hard work, sacrifices, and incredible love. They were inseparable. They were totally devoted to each other and their family. These two people brought six of us kids safely into the world. They tried to teach us to be compassionate and loving, but most of all, they wanted us to hold our family close within our hearts. They loved us and raised us to the best of their ability and did without so we could have. Each time I think of my parents, I thank God that I was privileged to have known them and to have had them for my friends and parents. My dad and mom shared some of my laughter, some of my tears, and some of my dreams. I never outgrew my parents’ love or my need for their love. I’ve made many mistakes in my life, and I pray this book won’t be another one. I will write the truth as I see it and as much as I dare. Maybe something I write will help change the way my family treats one another. We’re worlds apart, yet we have a yearning for one another. I’ve come to accept the fact that it is not always possible to separate the good from the bad, and maybe I should not even try. I will just have to believe that maybe it was all the will of God. If just one family member changes their life for the better, then my book will be a masterpiece. There are few of us who haven’t had some failures and crises in our life, but I hope my family can rise above them. My sisters and brothers took one path in life, and I another. I know both my dad and mom were proud of the path I chose, and so am I. They say one’s children are the stars in one’s crown, and I pray we lived up to that saying, but only Mom and Dad know for sure.

Chapter 1

Eddie Gravitt’s funeral—Jan. 11, 1996

As we emerged from the funeral home, the unbearable cold hit me. My heart was overflowing with tears. Even though I knew in my heart that I would take you with me throughout my life, it did little at that moment to diminish my tears or the fears of not having you there to guide me as I go. Nothing you had ever told me had prepared me for that moment in time. I cried for your suffering and the pain life had dealt you. Daddy, my grief at that moment was almost overwhelming. So was my love.

I was walking behind your casket and trying not to scream, Daddy, please don’t leave me! What was it about you that made me love you so? Your smile, the twinkle in your eyes, your mischievous ways, the incredible way you told the stories of your life, even your temper? Maybe it was just the warmth of your life and your simple ways? Whatever it was, I knew that you would live forever in my heart and always be a part of me. I knew you would never truly leave me, and I knew you would be watching over me each day of my life. Mother taught us to believe that time is not measured in heaven as here on earth, so time would be short for you before we would see each other again. I knew, Daddy, that your desire would be for me to have a long and wonderful life. I would give it my best shot as you did. I wonder if I would be as strong as you were. I never wondered about your strength much in my life; I just took it for granted. You never gave me much reason not to, and you certainly would not want me to question it. You used to tell us kids that Mom was your main strength, and she always said you were hers.

Daddy, where did all that strength come from after she died? You faltered little where bravery was concerned. You told me once in a while when you were really lonely and depressed that you occasionally got a little scared, but in my mind, you were a pillar of strength. Should I have doubted that, and did I somehow let you down thinking you were so strong? I guess some of your courage had indeed left you as I found knives, hammers, and all sorts of weapons under your bed each time I cleaned your room on a visit home.

When I was growing up, you kept a loaded rifle and a very sharp corn knife behind or under the bed, so I accepted your new weapons as part of your life. It scared and embarrassed me knowing they were there, so I never mentioned it to you in fear of embarrassing you. I just put them back where I found them. Tears always came to my eyes, and sometimes I would cry, yet I never let myself actually believe that my dad was afraid. Weakness was not a commodity that my mind would allow me to see in you.

Now as you leave me forever, I wish I had allowed myself to see some of the fears you held so secretly to yourself. My heart is breaking at this moment, but the wonderful life we shared as father and daughter would see me through. I am confident that we will meet again in another place and time. Daddy, you and I shared a life full of laughter, ghost stories, temper tantrums, incredible love, tears, pain, illnesses, and yes, even death. There were even some very turbulent times.

The promises I had made to you over the years were now going to become an everyday part of my life. Your biggest request was on how I was to handle your final illness and your death. Your illness would not be nearly as hard to handle; death would win by far. I could never bring myself to tell you that the loss of my family when I kept all those promises would affect me and them greatly. I just never could let you know the pain you would bring into my life. My love and respect for you was way too strong to even mention just how frightened I was. You would say, Honey, if I get so ill that I can no longer make any decisions, I know you will make the right ones.

Daddy, exactly what are the right ones? I felt the right one was to fight for your life as I had done, but other decisions I would now face were becoming extremely hard. Never once did I tell you how it scared me half to death every time you wanted to talk about death. I couldn’t remember ever making a trip home after Mom died that you did not talk about death, and we would go over everything again and again. With all the courage I could muster up, I would promise you that all your wishes would be carried out. I knew when I was making all those promises year after year how hard it would be, but I would look in your trusting face and know I had to do whatever you wanted. Daddy, did you really know what all your wishes and my promises to you would really cost me and your family? I don’t think you had a clue.

Mom had raised her children by the Ten Commandments. Honor thy mother and father was repeated over and over as we grew up. She believed the fifth commandment was the most challenging issue that a child would ever have to face in a lifetime. Parents, she said, were not always right, but respect for a parent was always the right thing to do. Mom said the desires and wishes of any parent could drive a child nuts at times, but we must remember that God made his commandments for a good reason. Mom was one wise lady, and she was correct.

Both of you had put us through the wringer many times. Daddy, I must now rely on that commandment, my inner strength, and my love for you in order to make sure all your wishes and all my promises to you are carried out. I must be as strong as my mother and carry a promise through to the letter. You had warned me in that domineering voice you got when something was extremely important to you that it would all be very hard and extremely trying. You said I would need God, all my strength, and overwhelming courage to get through it all. You repeated how much you believed in me and trusted me to call on all three. Your trust in me had been my armor these last few days. Your love had been my shield. God is my anchor and my strength.

The sight of that beautiful, antique horse-drawn coach simply took my breath away. The two drivers added to the charm and beauty of this magnificent coach. She was dressed in a white tuxedo, and he was wearing a black one with a big Western hat on his head. Your dream and the desire to be taken to your grave in an antique carriage was now a reality. You expressed how much you always dreamed of this, but sadness would always creep into your voice as you though it simply would not be possible. Well, Daddy, there you are being lifted into that magnificent hearse.

The past forty days had been so hard on all of us, and the pallbearers were no exception. Their desire to fulfill Grandpa’s wish had given them an abundance of strength. As I spoke with each of them, I warned them that this task would require incredible strength. Mental strength would have to far outweigh the physical strength. They each had prayed for you to live, but in their hearts, they knew God’s place for you was ready and you were going to die. I watched with love and pride as they slid you into the carriage. I said a quick prayer for God to hold their hands and their hearts as this was their first time carrying a casket. This casket held a man they adored and had looked up to all their lives. It was plain to see that their hearts were breaking, but this last gift to Grandpa would give them the strength they needed. Their faces showed grief, but they also showed pride. To hear them tell it, you walked on water. Nothing short of an act of God would have stopped them from carrying you to the grave. You hated to be questioned about any decisions you made, and your pallbearer request was no exception.

It seemed like yesterday when you made your request to me. The memory of that day was still so fresh in my mind. The pain I now see on some of your grandsons’ faces tears my heart out. I had risked your temper that day when I questioned why you would want granddaughters instead of grandsons. To you, it was simple—they had always been the ones to take care of you in times of need, and you wanted them to be there to the very end. One last time for all of you to feel the closeness you had always felt for each other. I cautioned you that your change of plans was going to cause a great deal of pain for the grandsons—pain and hurt that they might never get over. You said you were sorry, but they were grown men, and if they loved you as much as you thought they did, then they would understand. I seriously doubted that, and I told you so. After all, they did have some of you and Mom in them, and you didn’t always understand changes or like them. Granddaughters were who you wanted, and if I didn’t want to do it, you would just ask someone else and hope they would be willing to do it.

I tried another approach then; I expressed my fears on their strength. Would they be physically strong enough? I said, Daddy, they might drop you. You laughed at me. You thought that was really funny. I told you, It might not be so funny if they drop your skinny butt and you roll out in the street. You really got to laughing and said, As skinny as I am, I’ll be real easy to pick up. They can just pick me up and throw me back in the casket. That contagious laughter of yours really got me to laughing as I visualized the sight of those girls picking Grandpa up off the street and tossing him back into the casket. I could almost hear them discussing how they were going to handle it: Cheryl saying Oh my word over and over, Twila saying We’ve got to get him up off the street, Melinda turning all pale and getting weak in the knees, Shelly losing all control, and Karen saying Poor Grandpa over and over. Then there was me yelling, Jack, do something! I told you total chaos would be what we were in for.

To ease my mind, you even demonstrated how easy it would all be, even to the point of straightening your coat and giving it a quick dusting off. I went into fits of laughter as I watched you. We both knew for sure that they would cry, argue, and even freak out for a little while, but you would get back in that casket, even if you had to crawl back in yourself. You imitated them all a little but said your money was on Twila and Shelly. My new approach had lightened the situation; however, you made no attempt to change your mind. You were the head of this family, and any request you had dealing with your final arrangements should never be questioned, and you were very firm in stating that to me. To you, it was all so simple. I wondered aloud if they had the courage to risk making your grandsons mad. You said, My granddaughters? Who are you kidding? They are some of the bravest women I have ever met. They take after their grandmother. I myself thought they had a little of both of you in them. I knew when the time came, arguing wouldn’t do me any good anyway, because if Grandpa wanted it, they simply were going to do it. They would not find excuses or run from the task.

I glanced at Karen and remembered all the things she had told me this morning about you and her love for you. She was the last to arrive in Missouri, only arriving this morning. Since the moment she arrived, she had barely left your casket. She stood there holding your hand and telling you how she felt about you. She said, Grandpa, when I was little, you made six weeks a year happy and bearable for me. I ate three meals a day, was shown love, and made to feel that I was beautiful and worth something. She asked you if you remembered how she used to crawl up on the bed beside you and hold your hand while you told her stories. With tears in her eyes, she said, Grandpa, you never made me feel unwanted or unloved. Everything you taught me was done with patience and deep love. She just talked and talked to you.

Without a doubt, I knew your love for your grandsons was a strong love and that your intent was never to hurt them. For as long as I could remember, the grandsons were to be pallbearers. As the years slipped by, you realized that it was the granddaughters who had always come to your rescue when you were ill or when you just needed a fun day away from home. I asked you to please be the one to tell the grandsons. No, I begged you. I told you I would do as you asked, but you really needed to tell them before you died. Daddy, it seemed you forgot! Maybe you didn’t forget, just never knew how to tell them for fear of hurting them, maybe even losing them, so you left it up to me to handle. Many times you had left things like that up to me, and each time, I dreaded the chore. And this time had been no exception. I knew the pain each one would suffer when they were told they were not going to be pallbearers. I also knew that some of them would simply not believe me and might never forgive me.

According to your logic, this would be a test on who were the real men in the family. Daddy, only one failed—the one you would have least suspected. I pray that someday he, too, would come to terms with your requests and his anger would be short-lived. Regardless, you are my dad, and my promise that your wishes would be granted was going to be fulfilled no matter the outcome. I only pray, Daddy, that in time all your children and grandchildren would understand your wishes and requests were going to be and should be honored.

We talked for hours that day, Daddy, as we had many times before. You went over each and every grandchild’s personalities, good looks, talents, and bad habits. You certainly were a proud grandpa. All of them were good-looking, according to you. Not an ugly one among them, almost flawless. As I sat listening to you, I wished that each of them could hear what you were saying. You had loved them, spoiled them, and now there you sat once again bragging about them. There were a couple of them whom you felt had brought shame on the family by their conduct, but regardless, you really loved them. I sat there thinking, Where in the world did he get such perfect grandchildren, and are these the same children I know? I even asked you, Daddy, maybe you have some grandchildren I’ve never met? You seemed to be describing children quiet different than the ones I knew, and I told you so. I told you a couple of them were just downright criminals who indeed had brought us embarrassment and shame.

Major mistakes and reckless conduct didn’t matter to you where love was concerned. You burst into laughter, and you laughed and laughed at what I had said. Their mistakes—and some were pretty major mistakes—didn’t seem to matter where your love was concerned. You certainly were not proud of the things they had done or crimes committed, but as a grandfather, love was what mattered most to you. You felt the ones who flirted with danger continuously needed your love the most. We shared some pretty funny and some pretty sad stories that day.

Never once in any of the memories we shared did I doubt for a moment the love you felt for your family. You went into detail on the pride you felt when the first grandchild, Debra Kay, was born. She was the cutest little thing you ever saw. Tears came as you described how painful it was for you and Mom to have never really been given the privilege of getting to know her.

I knew love held no boundaries, and you were just verifying my beliefs. The tears you shed that day left little doubt of the pain you felt and the feeling you had as you spoke of your love for your family. That very love had brought you incredible pain at times. You never truly believed that all your children loved you. The pain in my heart was so strong that I knew I never wanted to feel that kind of pain from my own children. Your pain was so intense, Daddy, that it was visible on your face. Your tears fell and fell. Heart-wrenching sobs. You said you had just come to accept it, but it sure hurt. You told me the pain of it was a constant and steady pain. That day, it was real apparent to me that you truly believed everything you were saying. Nothing I could say would change your belief, but I tried.

As we sat there crying, I knew that God was the only one who could make you believe any different. I hoped that before you left this earth, you would know that they all really loved you. I tried another approach then, a rather harsh approach, to say the least. I told you the kind of love you always gave us kids was deserving of much better than anything they could give in return, and maybe they were not worthy of your love. I felt that there were many times that they didn’t even like themselves, much less love themselves or anyone else, and I expressed this to you. I suggested that maybe it was time for you to give them the old heave-ho. That was not an option for you. They were your children, and all you really wanted was to be loved. You tried hard at being a good father. You wanted them to be your best friends. To me, you excelled at both, and I told you so.

You were certainly proud that you had succeeded where the grandchildren were concerned. You knew without a doubt that they all adored their grandpa. Over the years, you had held their little hands and watched them grow into those perfect grandchildren, both as a grandfather and a friend. The look that came across your face was one of pure, unconditional love. You told me they had royal blood running in their veins. I had heard that saying so many times over the years from you, but each time I heard it, I knew how special my dad thought we all were. I knew, Daddy, that your grandchildren all hold that same pride in their hearts for you as you did them. Daddy, I knew that no matter how many mistakes you thought you had made in your life—and you said there were way too many to mention—all you ever really wanted or cared about in life was for your children and grandchildren to grow into responsible adults and to return your love. I knew how desperate and delicate your feelings were at that moment as I sat watching you cry.

I said, Daddy, do you know just how very much I love you? You spread your arms wide apart and said, With all your heart. Your eyes lit up with such love for me, and you held out your arms to me. You said, Come give this old man a big kiss and hug. The little girl in me needed that hug and kiss just as much as you did at that sad moment. I sat there with those aged arms around me, and I knew that God had blessed me with a very special dad—a dad who held an almost sacred kind of love in his heart for all of us, a love he so desperately wanted and needed to give to his children, if they would only reach out to him as I did. You were one of the most important people in my life, and I told you so. You said you just could not imagine not having me in your life. What beautiful words those were then and now. I knew that I was still my daddy’s little girl and would always be.

We sat with me holding your hand and my head on your shoulder for a long time. I felt so safe there next to you. Those fragile old arms were so reassuring. We never spoke a word as we sat there, but we both knew how great our love was for each other. Oh, Daddy, if only I could feel those arms one more time. Now and then, please reach down and give me a little hug. Please don’t forget to hug the grandchildren as I have a feeling that they might need it over the years.

Chapter 2

My mind returned to the present, and once again, the unbearable cold hit me harder than before. For one brief moment, I thought, This is an awful day for a funeral. And then I remembered a line from a movie I saw once, Any day a good man goes to meet God is a good day for a funeral. Easy words to say in the movies, but life is quite different. I glanced off into the crowd as the casket was being loaded into the hearse, and my eyes met my sisters. I knew that they loved you, but sometimes love was hard for them to show. I wanted to slap them and hold them at the same time. I felt pity and rage at that moment for them. Both feelings would be there for a long, long time.

Looking at your hearse made me realize that antiques just wouldn’t be as much fun to buy now as they were when you were here to share the excitement, especially when one of us found a rare piece. Rarely did any of us find anything quite like the ones you found. For years, every time I came home, you gave me that same tour of the house, pointing out each item and repeating its history. How I looked forward to those times. Your eyes would light up, your voice would get a hint of excitement in it, and a day or night of antique history was in store for me and anyone else present. The same thoughts always went through my mind, What a smart man you are. A lesson on people also got included as the story was told. Knowing that you could neither read nor write, it would be hard to put into words how much pride I felt as you gave me a history lesson on antiques and people.

My mind was racing so fast. I wanted to remember and treasure every moment of our life together. My head was throbbing, but my mind raced on. I thought of the years we lived on Peeridge Road. I was only three when you moved us there. I wondered how I could ever describe growing up on Peeridge Road. I suppose straight from my heart. I knew Peeridge was a place where poor kids learned to live, love, fight, and work hard. It was a place that trained one how to be a survivor. Most of us couldn’t wait to leave, but most who left also left a small piece of their heart there. I loved and hated Peeridge. I really hated being so poor and living in poverty. I was among other poor people, but when you are a little kid, no one seems as poor as you. Peeridge folks had a bond between them that the outside world could not break. They fought among themselves something fierce, yet they loved one another.

Peeridge crosses my mind on a regular basis. Mom taught us to never forget where we came from and the people who were there with us. I never have. She said to be proud of our roots and not let anyone make us feel that they were better than us, because they weren’t. Maybe richer and more educated, but not better. She said if they think they were, ask them to prove it, and the odds were that they would not be able to. No matter what Mom said, it still really embarrassed me, and I hated it when anyone asked, Where do you live? If anyone asked me how it got its name—and they usually did—I had to tell them it was a mystery to me. I think it was a mystery to most people. I outgrew all that, Daddy, as I got older. I now feel immense pride in saying I was raised on Peeridge Road with some of the most fascinating people one would ever wish to meet. These people are so dear to my heart.

Our little country road was also called Tobacco Road. Most of the men and even some of the women on that road chewed tobacco or used it in some fashion. I always hated to see anyone chew tobacco, and I hated the way they spit. Those women could spit just as far as any man could, and they were real proud of it. Hardly a day went by that you didn’t make a mess somewhere with your old spit can. You used a coffee can most of the time. Your shirt generally had some on it, the floor got a little, and generally, we kids got a little. When you became an antique dealer, a brass spittoon became the thing. I even had one at my house for your visits. I found the whole thing disgusting, but I kept one for you anyway. You were so mischievous that I know you missed that spittoon just to see me get nauseated.

Your tobacco spit nauseated more than one person over the years. I still go into fits of laughter when I remember the day you handed an airport security guard your cup of tobacco spit. It was impossible to let it pass through the scanner, so you carried it through. I told you to throw it away, but you argued you were not finished using it.

One of the guards asked you what you had in it, and you calmly said, Spit. He looked at you like you were an idiot and didn’t believe one word you said. I tried to tell him, but before I got the words out of my mouth, it was too late. He had already pulled up the Kleenex that you had inside the cup. He turned rather green and looked at me and said, What is this? His tone of voice was downright pitiful. I looked him straight in the eye and said, He told you, spit. I guess he didn’t believe me either because once again he lifted that Kleenex half out of the cup.

By then, you were laughing so hard your pants were falling down. You had removed your belt buckle to walk through the scanner, and you never had the time to replace it before that poor guard took your spit cup. Your pants were way too big, as usual, and without your belt, any movement would probably cause your pants to fall down around your knees. They got below your rear end before you finally caught them. The sight was too much for me, Jack, my friend Ola, and my girls, and we all went into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. We were laughing so hard that the tears were coming. That guard said, Here, you take it. And I said, What do I want with it? You can keep it. He kept trying to push it in my hands, all the time trying not to puke.

Normally I would have wanted to puke right along with him, but I was laughing way too hard to even consider it. I told him to throw it in the trash, and he said, I can’t. It’s not mine. I said, It isn’t mine either. You never offered to take it, and I sure wasn’t going to. Jack finally stopped laughing long enough to take it and tell the guard, Maybe next time you will believe people if they tell you something like that. That guard probably would’ve liked to see us all arrested for the shame and embarrassment he felt when we were laughing at his reaction. Jack threw it in the trash and told you, Next time, Dad, just let me get you a clean one. You said, And miss all this fun? No way. You kept telling everyone, Eva was almost as funny as the guard. I laughed all the way to the plane terminal and for days afterward. You were still laughing when you got on that plane. I could almost bet that poor man never forgot that day.

Remember the time I threw out your favorite spittoon? You were in the hospital, and Thelma and I was going to give your house a good, old-fashioned cleaning. We were doing a great job, until it came to the spittoon. I said, Thelma, you will have to empty that mess and clean it up, because no way am I doing it. She looked at me like I was crazy. She declared loud and clear that she wasn’t going to do it either.

After a long debate, we decided to just toss it out with the garbage and say we didn’t know what happened to it. When we finished cleaning, we sat down to discuss how we were going to deny ever seeing that sick-looking spittoon. We were going to just downright lie to you. And lie we did the next day when we brought you home from the hospital. Over and over and over, we lied. Never saw it, Dad. Where did you last leave it? Are you sure you never took it to the hospital with you? Could it be out in the pickup? Maybe it’s over at Moe’s house! We lied so much over that ugly thing that I thought God was going to punish us and in short order. You yelled and cussed so much that I almost caved in, but the look Thelma gave me made me change my mind. I could barely hold a straight face. You called us two of the worst liars you ever met.

When you decided to go out and look in the garbage can, I was thankful the trash had been picked up that morning. Here I was, fifty years old and lying to you over a damn spittoon. I did not make it a practice to ever lie to you, but this time, I was sure going to make an exception. I finally said, Daddy, those things are just plain disgusting to have around. Just go back to using a two-pound coffee can like you used to. You won’t have to clean it. You can just give it a toss every couple of days. You looked me straight in the eye and said, Aha, you threw out my spittoon just like you threw out my antique comb holder. Antique comb holder? Now that was a new one. Then you went on to describe it. It was that rusty, mangled old piece of metal hanging on the bathroom wall. Oh no! It looked like junk to me, so I threw it out!

I sheepishly admitted throwing out the comb holder, but once again, I lied about the whereabouts of the spittoon. No matter how long or loud you bemoaned the loss of your precious spittoon, there was just no way I was going to admit the truth. To me, it was plain and simple. Good riddance to bad rubbish. You told me I made a piss-poor liar and I ought to be ashamed of myself for coming into your home and throwing away your things. You told me and Thelma to go stand in front of the mirror and look at two big fat-ass liars and piss-poor ones to boot. I could not hold back my laughter, but I got up and looked into one of the mirrors and told you that I saw a big fat, beautiful woman looking back at me and an honest one to boot. You said, Look again because mirrors don’t lie.

I told Thelma to come take a look and see what she would see. She did and told you that I was right, that there was a fat, beautiful woman looking back at her. You got to laughing at us and told us that we were indeed fat and kind of pretty, but damn liars! You said we ought to be ashamed pulling dirty tricks on an old man. It took me a few years to tell you the truth. Finally, a short time before you died, I told you the truth. You got to laughing so hard when I related how Thelma and I made the decision to give that spittoon the heave-ho. You warned me I better never try that again. Who were you kidding? You had never replaced it; you just used a coffee can like I suggested. You threw it out every couple of days, making your life easier.

Once more, my eyes wandered through the crowd, and my eyes fell on several Peeridge friends. Peeridge Road was just a few short miles filled with people I hold so dear to my heart. Peeridge and Tobacco Road both ended at the Brick Yard Hill. I get a warm feeling in my stomach each and every time I drive down Peeridge, and I now thank God that I grew up there. People I love may have moved or passed away, but my memories of them are still fresh in my mind.

My first memory of Peeridge was of the small farm where you raised me. That fifty-two-acre poor old farm was my safe haven against the world for several years. This was a lot of land to own by Peeridge standards. It definitely was the best farmland on Peeridge. Those fifty-two acres put food on our table and clothes on our back even though it never did fully support us. You worked part-time, and we received a small monthly welfare check. Because of your heart problems and education, we were able to get a small check, which sure came in handy. I do not think we would have survived without it; there were just too many kids to feed and clothe. Times were very hard for us, but no matter how sick you were, you did anything and everything to make ends meet. There was many a time when food supply was very low, but not once did you let us go to bed hungry. You and Mom might have gotten a little hungry and did not let us kids know, but we always had a big supper. Sometimes it was just beans, potatoes, and biscuits, but there was plenty for us kids. However, breakfast was another story.

Many a day I went to school hungry. By lunchtime, I was so hungry my stomach hurt. Us kids had to work for our lunch at school as soon as we got old enough—sweeping classrooms, washing dishes, whatever the school needed. You couldn’t afford to buy our lunch, and you believed work never hurt anyone. It might embarrass us, but it sure would not kill us. It did embarrass me, especially when other kids made fun of us for being so poor. It hurt more though. Many a tear went unshed by me, but they were always close to the surface. If we were too little to