Finding My Way Home

By Pam Estes

Finding My Way Home is a historical fiction book. It details the lives of the two main characters, Bobbie James, and Allie Stephens. The book is set in the 1940s and describes what life was like during this era. This is a fictional work, but the story is based on actual people, places, and events. Travel with Allie as she is forced to move from her childhood home in Elizabeth to Elm Springs, Arkansas. Experience what it was like for her to work in the strawberry fields, begin a new school, and weather the storms of life. Journey with Bobbie through cotton fields, a haunted house, and an encounter on a train. You will laugh at the predicaments these two individuals find themselves and be brought to tears by their struggles. Above all, you will be entertained and inspired by this simple story of faith, family, and fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636309019

Book preview

Chapter 1

Allie

The renovation of the old homeplace stirs memories in me that have not surfaced in many years. I suppose just the fact that the house is receiving so much attention, somehow it has become the focus of my thinking. So many memories come flooding back. I look at the structure now with the new beige siding, neatly paned windows, and shiny green roof, remembering how it looked just a few weeks ago. Standing there now, pristine and crisp, the house appears to have had a facelift, years removed from its life. I had failed to notice its deterioration over the years until the sudden change made it all crystal clear. Perhaps its decline can be compared to the effects of old age creeping upon a person unawares—first the gleam slipping from the eyes, a sagging here and there, and then a bending of the shoulders and stooping of the back. In the beginning, the changes are so subtle they are imperceptible. Gradually though, the transformations become pronounced to the extent that it would be a blatant lie to ignore their existence.

I suppose at eighty-three I have to accept a few changes that have crept upon me, as well. I’ve had my own share of sagging and drooping here and there as much as I try to turn a blind eye. It seems every day I move a little more slowly and notice a new ache and pain here and there. Contrary to what experienced carpenters have been able to accomplish with this old house, no such transformation can be made to this increasingly tired body of mine. I look at young girls today and marvel at their youthful bodies and glowing skin. I wonder if mine was ever that smooth and flawless. Not a wrinkle or blemish is evident anywhere. Perusing old photographs of myself when I was their age, I try to remember how it felt to be so tiny and firm, so put together. Ahhh, to get a renovation like this old house; now wouldn’t that be something!

Can I help you? A worker pauses in his work as he notices me standing at the side of the porch. I have been so lost in thought, I am startled for a moment. I shift my gaze from the structure to the young man at the sawhorse. One hand is still on the pine board, but the motor is silent now as he assesses me. I must be the last thing he expected to see standing before him, on this spring day. He stands rooted to the spot, waiting for my explanation. Undoubtedly, this young man is hot and tired as well as busy, and I suddenly feel intrusive, ashamed for interrupting his labor.

The man is covered with sweat, and particles of sawdust stick to him as if he has been dipped into a sack of cornmeal ready for the frying. Looking down, I see the pencil mark on the wood where he has measured and marked with accuracy the place he intends to make the cut. The sight of him makes me think of my dad and the long hours he spent at his own sawmill, covered in sweat and sawdust, measuring and cutting as this man does. The flying dust particles in the air, the piney scent of cut lumber, the man covered in woodchips—all stir strong emotions inside me. I resist the urge to walk over to brush the dust from the man’s shirt.

Oh, I don’t want to be a bother, I say instead, smiling at his inquisitive expression.

No bother, ma’am. Glad for the break, he answers politely, taking a tattered bandanna from his back pocket and running it across his sweaty face.

I notice his youth. The man’s body is muscular. His thick brown hair is brushed back from his face, damp from perspiration. Stubbly whiskers glisten in the sun.

This used to be my parents’ house, I say with a bit of pride in my voice. I used to live here when I was a young girl. He tilts his head and smiles, and I wonder if he is trying to picture me a girl of eight or ten. I continue. In fact, my dad was the one who built this house.

Is that right? the man replies, a broad smile now. So you’re one of Robert’s daughters, are you? Doug mentioned that Robert had five daughters.

Doug is my nephew. He bought the house a few months ago, and is paying to have it updated and modernized.

I’m Allie, I answer. I’m the second oldest daughter. I live just down the road there, I say, nodding my head in the direction of my own house. I love how the house is looking. I’ve only seen the outside, though. I was hoping I could have a look around the inside today if it’s not a problem.

Nope. No problem at all. Nice to meet you. I’m Jackson Wright. The man starts to stick out his hand to me but suddenly pulls it back. Smiling, he wipes his sweaty palms on his bandanna and then extends his hand. I take his hand and smile. Mr. Wright smiles too. I heard your dad built this house. Let me tell you, it’s as solid as a rock, very well-made. They sure don’t make ’em like this anymore. I’ve liked working on it. You go right on in and look around all you want to. Just be careful where you step. There’s stuff on the floor that would be easy to trip over. I wouldn’t want that. The worker starts forward, extending a hand. Need any help?

Thank you, I answer, taking his outstretched hand. I’ll be okay. I’d just like to see how it’s coming along. Mr. Wright leads me around some stacked lumber, bags of cement, and other building supplies scattered across the lawn. It’s kind of special to me, ya know, I say, smiling up at him. My sisters have been talking about it, so I decided I’d better come and see for myself. Mr. Wright smiles in an understanding way. He holds my hand as I prepare to maneuver the steep first step of the porch. Then he continues to assist me until I climb the other two steps. On the porch, I pause a few minutes, looking back to the south. It’s true that the view from this vantage point is spectacular. In fact, I’ve often said that this porch has a million-dollar view, but it is not for the scenery alone that I hesitate today. The climb up the steep steps has left me a little winded, so I delay a minute looking out at the blue hills in the distance.

It’s sure pretty from up there, ain’t it? Mr. Wright calls up to me.

I look down and nod. In fact, the view is prettier now than it used to be, I say. A lot of the timber has been cleared, and you can see even farther!

Ummm, Mr. Wright smiles then starts back toward his work. I turn around, too, and take hold of the door handle to move inside.

As I step over the threshold and into the room, I hear the electric saw spin to life in the yard behind me. At the same time, I feel my head begin to spin, as well. It’s as though the years fall away and I’m a young girl again, back at home with my family. I stand transfixed with my eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of earlier days.

I imagine that I can smell Mama’s supper frying in the kitchen and hear my younger sisters laughing and singing. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. Looking down, I notice the wooden floors, so long covered by linoleum rugs, are sanded and polished to their original state. I remember the times Daddy had to dig splinters out of little feet when the house was new and the boards were still rough. I know Daddy was the one who felled the very trees for these floors, cut the logs into boards at his sawmill, and nailed these timbers into place. It sends a shiver down my spine. I slide the toe of my shoe lovingly along the board, thinking of his hands working this very plank where I am standing. What a talented man he was, and what a hard worker! How thankful I am that this house is being restored instead of being allowed to decay and crumble like so many of the older homes in the community. How sad when that happens. I know that with this renovation, Mom and Dad’s house should be here for a long, long time, years after I’m gone. What a legacy Dad has left us, and what a gift Doug is giving us in having this place restored.

I look over to the chimney wall. We never had a fireplace in this house. Instead, we had a Franklin stove. It was shiny black and would actually turn orange when it got really hot. I know Mama must have worried about the young ones getting burned on it. I think of all the cold mornings we girls would gather around the stove and drink the hot chocolate Mama would make for us, creamy and thick from Frosty’s rich milk. The brick wall is where the stovepipe from our stove went into the wall and where the smoke was then carried up through the chimney. I’m glad the wall is unchanged. The new occupants probably won’t heat with a woodstove, but the brick wall adds a nice homey feel to the room. I remember spending hours nestled behind the stove playing hull-gull or jacks with Winna. It was a favorite place too for cutting out our paper dolls.

The little closet Dad built beside the brick wall is no longer there. It was a tiny closet built into the wall; a secret cubbyhole was the way I used to think of it. I remember the treasures I’d hide there as a child: a corncob doll, a hair ribbon I wanted all for myself, later a note from a favorite beau. However, it was mainly used for the paperback books Mom and Dad liked to read and for the few books and games we girls collected. How clever I thought my dad to build the tiny cupboard into the wall.

Mom and Dad had their bed in this front room. I know that seems odd today, but it was very common when I was a girl. Houses were small, and families were large. Every bit of the house was used. Today, so many homes have rooms that are used only for show or to display expensive furniture. Extra rooms were certainly not the case when I was growing up. Our house had only four rooms, so Mom and Dad slept in the living room. Their bed was across from the stove. It had an iron bedstead, a chipped black one. The bed actually took up most of the small room. A square table stood at the end of the bed. On it sat the battery-powered radio and the kerosene lamp. Often when one of us girls would be working on homework in the light of the kerosene lamp, another member of the family would need to borrow the lamp to get something from another room. The homework would have to stop until the borrower returned the lamp. Finally, we could see, once again, to resume our work.

About the only other thing in this tiny room was a cane bottom chair. It would have pleased Mama to have a rocking chair for her babies, but she didn’t have that luxury; her rocking chair was lost to the house fire. That didn’t stop Mama from rocking, though. We could always tell when Mama was getting her baby to sleep by the knock, knock sound coming from the front room. She would be sitting in the cane bottom chair, and one of the little ones would be on her lap. Mama would tip the chair back on two legs. Then she would come down on all four legs with a knocking sound. Then back she’d go on two legs again. Then down she’d come again on all four legs. I guess babies got used to the familiar sound, and it became soothing to them. Mama’s babies seemed to enjoy it anyway. In fact, in a way, it was soothing to all of us. When Mama was rocking and singing softly, the rest of us would find ourselves getting droopy eyed. How different babies have it today. My little great-grandchildren have every gadget known to man, from heated wipes to cradles that not only rock by themselves, but vibrate too. How would their mothers manage with nothing but a cane bottom chair and rag diapers made from old sacks?

That’s about all the furniture we had in the front room—Mama and Dad’s bed, the little table, and the cane bottom chair. Of course, we would pull the chairs from the dining table into the living room when we had company. This room was the place we gathered together on cold wintry evenings, sitting on the bed, on the floor, or wherever we could find a spot. On summer evenings, though, we sat outside until bedtime. Sometimes we even slept outside. It was much cooler there under the trees and stars.

I look around at the walls. They are now a stylish gray color. How different from the building papers that once covered these wide oak-planked walls. Winna and I helped Mama use a flour paste to hang the building papers. I remember how proud we were of those walls. Always before we had used only newspapers to cover our walls. We thought we were so stylish with our new walls. I believe the walls were yellow. Before the building papers were put in place, however, tow sacks were first nailed underneath as a crude form of insulation. I supposed we must have glued newspapers on the walls for insulation, as well, because the workmen told Doug they found old 1941 newspapers underneath layers of wallpaper. Imagine that! I’m sure I helped glue that newsprint to the walls. I would have liked to have had some of those newspapers, but the workmen said they crumbled away to dust when they tried to remove them.

I think of the thick insulation that must be inside these rebuilt walls and reminisce back to what we used. I guess the tow sacks and newspapers helped some. Even so, it wasn’t unusual to see the wall paper vibrate on wintry nights and waken in the morning to find that the water in the hot-water bottles at our feet had turned ice-cold during the night. I wonder just how cold our house got back then. We were sure thankful for the mounds of quilts piled on top of us, I can tell you that. The old quilts that are heirlooms today were what kept us from freezing to death when we were kids. We didn’t care so much what they looked like; we just wanted the thickest, the heaviest, and the more of them the better.

I turn and look back to the brick wall. A quivering smile plays at my mouth. It has been so long ago, but I do remember, as a young girl, a certain loose brick in that wall. For some reason, the mortar must not have sealed properly around it when the bricks were laid, and it sat loose in its cavity. Daddy would discipline me when he caught me pulling at it, but it was like a loose tooth I kept wanting to wiggle. Finally, one day when I was alone in the house, I succeeded at pulling it from the wall. I held the brick in my hands and peered into the damp space behind it. I don’t know what I expected to see, and naturally there was nothing there. I guess it was just knowing I had a secret spot that excited me. I knew I would probably feel the sting of the razor strap if Daddy found this out, and I only took the brick from its spot two other times that I can remember. I never told anyone about my secret, and as far as I know, no one ever found out about it.

The little girl inside me today, though, wonders if it can still be dislodged. I can hear the electric saw continuing to buzz outside. The sound rings as it makes its way through another thick timber. It continues on uninterrupted. I wonder about other workers. I haven’t seen anyone else since I have been inside the house. Perhaps they are working in the back. I listen intently but hear no human sounds. I’m an old woman, but suddenly I feel like a kid peeping around the corner for a parent. Should I check the brick?

With considerable effort, I get down on one knee and take hold of the brick, third row from the bottom and second brick from the right. It seems strange that I have no trouble remembering this precise detail from so long ago when I seem to have difficulty remembering so many routine things these days. I grasp the brick and pull slightly. At first I think someone must have discovered the loose brick after all these years and mortared it back into place, but just at the last moment, when I’m ready to take my hand away, it gives slightly. Another gentle tug, and it slides into my hand. A shy smile plays at my lips. I cradle the brick in my hands recapturing a sensation I’d long forgotten: the feelings of a mischievous child. Holding my breath, I turn the brick over slowly and gasp. There it is, the message I wrote seventy-some years ago, as clear today as if it had just been written. Tears well up in my eyes and meander down the valleys of my face. They drip onto the surface of the dry brick and disappear into it as quickly as the years of my life have evaporated into time.

I sit thinking for a moment and then hunker down further and peer into the dark cavity where I have removed the brick. The smell is damp and musky. I must be breathing air that has been trapped in here for almost seventy years, I think. I squint, my eyes scanning the dark interior as my heart skips a few beats. Then all of a sudden, I see it, lying there on the earth. I can’t move. It seems impossible to think that it would still be here. My hand trembles as I reach into the hole and pick it up. It is so light. Can it really be this fragile and light. I rub my fingers over the rough surface looking for the marks, those juvenile markings made by me all those years ago. The words swim and disappear through my tears as I read the simple prose. I pull it to my chest as a sob escapes me, this little part of me that is mine alone. I have no one to share this with now, no one who would understand. I think of keeping this precious item with me, taking it home, this keepsake, this lovely reminder of love. But what would I do with it? How would I explain it to my children, my grandchildren? I pull it to my chest one final time and then tenderly place it back where it has lain these seventy years, knowing I will never see it again. I smile through my tears as I pick up the brick and place it into the hole once again. Slowly I get to my feet and look at the rows of bricks lined up neatly, everything in its proper place once again. No one will know. No one will realize the wall has been disturbed. The memories inside are shut off, sealed up and tucked away for who knows how long. Perhaps they will never be discovered. I bite the corner of my lip as realization dawns upon me. Even though the wall has been securely shut, the door of my mind has been opened wide, and memories of that time so many years before come flooding out.

Allie

May 1942

Moving Day

Sell me a sory, Betty says with a wide, dimpled grin and an infectious giggle that always seems to follow anything coming out of her mouth. She is snuggled beside Winna, my oldest sister, on a stack of quilts Mama has spread in layers on the hard, wooden floor. Three or four quilts lie on top of one another forming a pallet that’s pretty thick, making it almost as comfortable as our bed. I think of the quilts lying beneath us and feel somewhat comforted by their familiar patterns and textures. Tonight I’m searching for the familiar, the known, wanting things to remain as they have always been. I can’t see the quilts; the front room is dark except for the sliver of moonlight that has edged its way between the spaces in the thin faded curtains, but I know every inch of them. Winna and I sometimes spread them out and point to the pieces of the quilts that match our own cotton dresses. Most of the pieces in the quilt are very small. Mama doesn’t waste anything. Only the smallest scraps that have no other purpose find their way into one of Mama’s quilt blocks.

As the moonlight plays peekaboo through the thin curtains, it focuses its beam on Betty, casting her in the halo of its glow. I watch as Winna turns to look at Betty, who has asked her for a story. With one arm around Betty and the other arm curved around baby Patsy, Winna resembles a mother hen spreading her wings protectively over her brood of chicks for the night. Winna laughs at our little sister’s request for a story.

Shhh, she whispers as she glances down at Patsy. Don’t wake sissy. My baby sister, Patsy, lies in a curve, her little forehead pressed against Winna’s side. Blond tresses are spread out like curled hickory shavings across the feather pillow. Her soft rhythmic breathing is slow and steady in the dark. Winna turns back to Betty, whose smile is still plastered on her pretty face, small teeth gleaming in the dark. She says, Why don’t you tell me a story, Betty?

Betty drops her smile in an instant and sighs in exasperation. I know what she is going to say before she even says it. Betty only knows one story. She takes a deep breath and commences in that singsong way of hers. Little frrrrrooogggg…in the rooooaaaaddd…car came along and run over it. Now you sell me a sory.

Winna can’t help it. She bursts out laughing before she can stop herself and then quickly glances down at Patsy. Looking back over at Betty, she says through giggles, Sister, that’s an awful story. You’ve got to learn a new one.

My little sister, Betty, has always been fascinated with frogs. You know how most little girls are taken with dolls and flowers and birds and girly things like that? Well, not Betty; she loves frogs. I have no idea why. She’s a little odd in that way, certainly not inheriting it from me, I can tell you that. Watch me! she’ll boast as she hops along the daffodil lined path imitating a frog, and she’ll hop up and down the row of flowers for as long as she has an audience. And, heaven help us if she finds a frog. She will love that slimy thing to death, literally. If a frog knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay clear of Betty.

A funny thing happened one day, not too long ago, when we were walking to town. Betty happened to find a frog on the road that a car had run over. You know how they look, flat as a pancake, stiff as a board, and transparent as a piece of amber glass. Well, Betty had no idea what it was. Of course, she didn’t because she had never seen a dead frog before. So she picked it up, shook it, and asked, What’s this?

Oh, honey, put that down. That’s a dead frog, Winna said in her big sister voice.

Hun-uh! Betty said, shaking her head. She was not going for that. All the frogs she had ever seen had been plump and green and so wiggly she could hardly hold on to them. So, Winna gently explained how this frog used to be like that, but it got hit by a car.

The frog just happened to be in the road when a car came along and ran over it, honey, Winna said.

That’s mean, Betty said with a frown, beginning to get upset.

I said, The person didn’t try to run over it. He just didn’t see it, and the frog got squished. When I got a dirty look from Winna, I added, Honey.

Is it still alive? Betty asked, shaking the frog as if to waken him.

No, the frog is dead now, sweetie. He will stay flat like that forever, Winna said gently. Throw him down now, and let’s go. Winna is like that, always speaking in a gentle way to Betty and Patsy. I know I probably should too, but sometimes I just don’t have the patience.

Betty just doesn’t get it, though. Even after we’ve explained it to her a hundred times, any time she sees a dead frog, it’s always the same thing.

What’s that?

Betty, you know it’s a frog. We’ve told you that, one of us will say.

What happened to it?

It got run over.

Why?

It got in the road, and a car ran over it.

Because Betty has heard this explanation over and over, she’s sort of memorized it and made it into a story, I guess more of a way of convincing herself that it is true than anything else. So, any time Betty is asked to tell a story, she tells of a little frog in the road getting run over by a car. Everybody always laughs. Betty tells it in such a funny way, it’s hard not to laugh. To tell you the truth, though, I’m getting a little sick of it, and tonight I don’t even crack a smile.

Betty giggles as she grabs the edge of the sheet and fluffs it up and down a couple of times before letting it float gently down on us once again. Patsy might be sleeping soundly, but Betty is a long way from sleep. She’s squirming around like she does when Mama has the switch after her. Yeah, like that ever happens! Sell me a sory! Betty says again. Will she ever give up?

I’ll tell you a story, I say from my side of the quilt. I have turned over and am lying curled on my side, my back to my three sisters. The lantern sits on the stand table, and if I squint my eyes, the moon’s light coming through the globe of the lantern shimmers like the lamp is lit. The lantern reminds me of the poem I learned by heart just last week at school. Listen, my children, and you shall hear, of the midnight ride of Paul Revere… They were to hang one lantern if the British were coming by land, two if by sea, so Paul Revere could warn everyone. The light flickers and becomes distorted, as tears blur my vision. I think of my classmates and me reciting that poem, Montene leading us all in her strong, confident way.

I hear Winna clear her throat, and I know Betty is waiting for my story. I’m instantly ashamed of the story I’m about to tell. I wish I could be more like my sisters. Betty is so innocent and funny and sweet. It’s like she has sunshine sprinkled all over her. Happiness floats out of her like soap bubbles from Mama’s washtubs. And Winna could be the poster child for responsibility and levelheadedness. Where does that leave me? Well, tonight it leaves me with a chip on my shoulder and a breadknife in my heart. I know I will regret my words before I even begin, but I can no more stop my words than I can stop the move.

Once upon a time, there was a Mama, a Daddy, and four sisters living in a cozy home as happy as could be, I begin. Then—

Allie, Winna cautions. She knows where I am headed.

Then, I carry on, the Daddy decides to make the family move out of their home and away from all their friends and, and— My voice catches in my throat, and I have to stop, choking on the words.

What’s wrong with sissy? Betty asks in her innocent way, and I hear Winna whisper something to her and cuddle her close.

Closing my eyes, I stop holding back the tears and allow them free rein. I cry because of the move, for feeling separated from my sisters, for causing my parents so much grief over the last few days, and because I can do nothing about any of it. I have cried so much lately that Mama and Daddy have even quit trying to console me. Mama’s words at supper stung when she said, Allie, that’s enough! I jumped up from the table and ran out of the house. I wanted to keep running. I wondered if I ran off and hid somewhere they couldn’t find me if that would postpone the move? I considered it and so many other possibilities that might alter Daddy’s plans. Somehow, though, nothing I came up with seemed logical enough to work. Suddenly, I realized I was out of ideas and out of time.

Tonight will be my last night in this house. Tomorrow I will climb up into Daddy’s truck and move away from my home, my school, my friends, and most everything that means anything at all to me. I listen to the night birds as I think about the events of the day. It’s really a blur since I’ve tried all day to block out as much of it as possible.

An auctioneer arrived around seven this morning just as I was washing the breakfast dishes. I saw the Dodge sedan pull up at the side of the house and the man step out. I watched from the kitchen window, my hand balled up inside a jelly glass holding the dishrag. Please get back in and drive away. Drive away. Drive away. My prayer was repetitious but sincere. I glanced at Daddy, who was sitting at the dining room table bent over a writing tablet with a pencil in his hand. He has been doing that a lot lately, writing figures, erasing, writing some more, erasing more. I walked in to wipe the tablecloth where Betty had dropped some oatmeal at breakfast, the cereal already hardening on the vinyl covering. I looked at Daddy, pleading with my eyes. It’s not too late, I wanted to say. Daddy must have sensed my emotional state because he looked up at me and then to the window. His eyes traveled from the man walking across the yard then back at me. He cleared his throat and moved his coffee cup aside. He sat there a minute longer and then pushed back his chair. I could see the haunted look in his eyes as he got up from the table, squeezing my shoulder as he did so. That’s when I knew the sale was going to happen. As Daddy went out the door, I slumped down into his chair and dropped my head onto my arms.

I didn’t cry. I thought about Daddy as I rolled the pencil back and forth on the table trying to get the look in Daddy’s eyes out of my mind. There was a pained look in them. It reminded me of the look Grandpa Shoemate wore when his cow Brendie lost her calf. The calf had been born last year in June, and I ran down to see it just as soon as I heard. I was so excited about a new calf. I ran up, breathless, and climbed up and sat on the barn lot fence. Grandpa was standing inside the fence beside Brendie, stroking her, and the calf was lying on the ground, just lying there. I couldn’t understand why the calf wasn’t nursing. It was already dry, so I knew it had been born for some time. It should have been nursing and walking around by now. As I watched, an awareness began to dawn upon me. The calf would struggle to get up and then lie back down, panting. Brendie tried to help. She would gently push the calf with her nose and caress it. Realization finally dawned upon me that something was wrong. Tears ran down my cheeks as I watched. It was the most pitiful thing I had ever seen. Help her, Grandpa, I said. Help her get up and eat.

But Grandpa just shook his head. He was quiet for a long time. Finally, he said, Something’s not right with her, honey. I’m afraid she’s not going to make it. There’s nothing I can do. You run along, now. Leave us be. I’ll take care of what needs to be done. Grandpa had looked so sad and helpless. It broke my heart, and I could tell it was breaking Grandpa’s heart too by the look in his eyes.

That’s the same sad look Daddy had in his eyes when he went out to meet the auctioneer. All this time, ever since the talk of the move, I have been so focused on my own feelings that I have not given much thought to how difficult the move might be on my parents. The pencil rolled back and forth and up against the paper tablet. I raised my head and examined the figures Daddy had been working on. The paper had been divided into two columns. In one column, Daddy had listed the items that were for sale today at the auction and the approximate dollar amount each item might bring. In the next column, Daddy listed the expenses necessary for our move out west and for settling into our new home. It wasn’t difficult to see there was a shortfall. The lump in my throat grew until I had difficulty breathing. I stood up and walked back into the kitchen. I slipped my hands into the wash pan and picked up the green plate with dried egg stuck to it. Tears dripped from my lashes into the soapy water, water as cloudy as my mind had become.

I turn over and put my hands under my head. I can’t get the look in Daddy’s eyes out of my mind. That auction had probably been harder on Daddy than it had even been for me. There wasn’t enough items for an auction, not really. The few things scattered on the ground in front of our house was evidence of that. It was only a little over a year since we lost almost everything we owned to a house fire, so what could you expect?

I had been so surprised a few weeks ago to hear Mama and Daddy talking about a sale, but Daddy said we needed some money to help with the expense of moving. It was sad going through our few belongings to decide what we might be able to do without. I watched my parents as they considered each item very carefully, Mama’s wrinkled brow and Daddy’s drawn mouth a sure sign that it was not an easy task for them. Every now and then Daddy would point to an item, but Mama would shake her head slowly. No, Robert, I’ll need that during canning time, she’d say. At other times, Mama would make a suggestion, but Daddy would explain why he couldn’t do without that. Very few household goods could be sold, and of course, we still needed all our clothing and bedding. That didn’t leave much else. After a lot of deliberation, Mama and Daddy finally decided to sell some things from the broom factory they once owned and some farm equipment that Daddy felt he could do without. Mama agreed to sell a few household items and her chickens too.

But that wasn’t all. I blink away fresh tears, and then close my eyes as I think of Frosty, our milk cow. That was the hardest thing we’d had to part with. Winna and I pleaded with Daddy not to sell Frosty, but he explained that there was no way we could take Frosty with us. She will be better off here with another family, he’d said. That’s sure not how I felt as I led Frosty from the field this morning, Frosty with her big sad eyes and beautiful frosty tan coat. Winna and I would bring her to the barn each morning to be milked. Usually Frosty was easy to lead in from the field, but today it had been different. Today she had been hesitant. It was as if she knew something was wrong. She seemed to be hiding, peeping around the trees, wanting to stay in the field. Poor Frosty. Who would throw salt on her back now and let her lick it off? Who would scratch her in that certain spot between her eyes that she loved so much? Where was Frosty tonight? I hadn’t even stayed to see who bought her. Instead, now ashamed to admit it, I ran and hid in the barn loft when I saw Daddy leading her into the yard. I deserted her, ignoring her bell around her neck tinkling out the sound I had listened to a million times. Even with my hands over my ears, I could still hear the chants of the auctioneer, Who’ll give me a twenty-dollar bid, twenty-dollar bid, now twenty-one-dollar bid, now two, who’ll give me a twenty-two-dollar bid, twenty-two dollars now? Do I hear three? Twenty-three? Do I hear twenty-three dollars? Twenty-two dollars going once, going twice, sold for twenty-two dollars! Precious Frosty sold for a measly twenty-two dollars. And I didn’t even tell her good-bye.

Daddy will be renting our house to a lady named Gusty and her sons, Willy and Ray, while we are gone. We will be leaving most of our furniture in the house for them to use. We just can’t take it all with us, Daddy said, and we won’t be staying that long. We can batch for a while. The rest of the furniture, what we will be taking with us, is already loaded onto Daddy’s truck so we can get an early start in the morning. That’s the reason we’re sleeping on a pallet tonight. Mama and Daddy are sleeping on our bed. Their bed is already loaded on the back of the truck along with the other things we are taking. In the morning, Mama will fold the quilts and bedding we are using tonight and add those to the truck along with a few other items. Then as soon as breakfast is over, we’ll be on our way. Daddy said it will be an all-day trip, and he wants to leave bright and early, soon after sunup.

It isn’t just the leaving that’s bothering me. Sure, it’s leaving my friends and school and home, but I can hardly stand the thought of someone else living in our house and using our things while we are gone. Mama says that’s selfish of me, but it’s been such a short time since our own house burned. What an awful time that was! Almost everything we had was destroyed. I had nightmares for weeks after the fire. I still find myself looking for some of our things: Mama’s flower garden quilt, my blue shirt with the yellow trim, the brown cup with the cracked handle I always used for hot chocolate, even Mama’s rocking chair. After the fire, Daddy built us this house across the road from where our old house stood. Gradually, we made this into our home—the newly acquired items becoming more familiar, the new house seeming to accept us. After a while, this finally seems like home again. It has taken so long to get to this point, though, and to have everything disrupted again. I just don’t know if I can stand it.

It was exciting moving into our new house. Daddy built this house from the wood he cut and planed himself. He has worked at a sawmill most of his life, starting as a young boy. He owns one of the two sawmills in town. Daddy is also a farmer and a carpenter. The sawmill is our main source of income, though. At times the mill has been especially busy. Sometimes Daddy has had as many as five men working for him. At other times, though, work slowed down, and Daddy had to let most of the men go. It’s been an up-and-down business over the years. Once during the Depression, Daddy had to completely shut down the mill and move off to work for a while. That time we didn’t go with him, though. We all stayed at home while he worked away. It was hard, but thankfully, it wasn’t for long, and when the Depression ended, work seemed to pick back up, for a while anyway. But here he is again, it seems, having to look for work. I don’t know why. Furthermore, no one seems to want to tell me anything.

As far as the economy is concerned, I can only judge by how the kids look at school. I remember when kids seemed a lot worse off than they do now. I think our move has more to do with all the work on the dam that’s going on in the next county and Daddy’s unwillingness to work on it. The dam is all people are talking about right now. Jim James even moved his sawmill to the damsite, and a lot of men from our area are working for him. For some reason, Daddy didn’t think it would pay to keep his sawmill up and going at this time. Anyway, that’s what I’ve picked up from bits and pieces of conversation I’ve overheard here and there. When I ask Daddy about the reason we’re moving, he just tells me it’s for the best right now and for me not to worry about it. He hasn’t convinced me of either of those two things. I wish I’d never heard of that stupid dam.

I look out the window at the twinkling stars and think of the men from our little community who are overseas right now fighting in the war. I wonder if they’re seeing the same stars I’m seeing. It’s probably daytime where they’re at, right now. Mama has reminded me to think of them several times lately, telling me we all have to make sacrifices during this time of war. Just think of the sacrifices they are making, and their families, Allie. I don’t think it’s too much to ask us to move away from our home for a while, she said to me. Mama’s right. I know I’m self-centered and selfish, but it hurt the way she said it to me so bluntly. I don’t have to look too hard to see that there are a lot of people around us whose lives have been affected by this war. Many families don’t even know where their loved ones are, just somewhere overseas. Randall Huett’s son, Amil, and Tom Huett’s son, Vernon Ray, are both fighting overseas. Clovis Hodges is another one gone from home. I lift my hands from under the sheet and raise my fingers as I list the ones who have either enlisted or been called up to serve: Amil, Vernon Ray, Clovis, Junior Huett, Kerry Richardson, Dallas Blair, Omer Lee Owens, Hayden Hammonds, Billy Case, Charley Rand, Royal Lester Rand, Leman Sanders, and Grover Borden. That makes thirteen, but I know I am forgetting some. Oh, Uncle Ed, how could I forget him? So that’s fourteen. So many right from our community. I know their families must miss them and worry night and day. At least my family will still be together in our move. In fact, some of our kinfolks will even be with us, except Uncle Ed, of course.

Grandma and Grandpa Shoemate have already moved to Elm Springs along with Aunt Georgie and Loeva. They are already settled in, waiting on us to arrive. Maybe it’s thinking about Grandpa that makes me begin to feel very ashamed of how I’ve been acting. Grandpa Shoemate is good to the core. He’s the best man I know, he and Daddy, that is. I don’t think a day goes by that Grandpa doesn’t try to instill some bit of wisdom in me about doing the right thing, so just thinking about him makes me feel guilty and ashamed. He wouldn’t be very proud of me. Here I have been pouting and complaining for days when I really should be thankful for so many things. I sigh and close my eyes. It won’t be easy, but I mumble a prayer of forgiveness and make a vow to turn over a new leaf and accept these new changes with a better attitude.

Suddenly, I notice how quiet it has become, and glancing over, I see that Betty is lying very still. Perhaps she is asleep. Winna, faithful dependable Winna, is rubbing her back and humming softly. Catching Winna’s eye, I smile tentatively. At least Winna hasn’t lost patience with me during all this. How I admire my older sister, so resolute and obedient, so willing to accept change and become the encourager for the rest of us. How does she do it? I keep asking myself. I’m sure I don’t know the answer. I close my eyes, determined to get some sleep. I know tomorrow will be a big day for all of us.

Morning comes too quickly, and I wake to find my family in a bustle of activity. Winna is already up. I catch a glimpse of her hurrying out the screen door with a load of something in her arms. Isn’t it just like Winna to be helping Mama get everything ready? Mama is flitting here and there, a determined look on her face, but appearing a bit frazzled. I can’t see Daddy, but I can hear him outside in the yard talking to someone. I recognize that laugh of his and then another voice. It sounds like Uncle Henry’s voice. Suddenly, Aunt Violet struggles through the screen door, a basket in her arms. Gracie! she hollers. Gracieeeee, yoo-hoo!

Uncle Henry and Aunt Violet live just down the road from us. Uncle Henry is Daddy’s brother. He resembles Daddy, a very nice-looking man, tall with a strong build and distinguished look. He puts me in mind of a senator or congressman. I suppose he might even remind me of President Roosevelt when I think of it, something about the way he carries himself, tall and proud.

But Uncle Henry has a flaw of sorts, certainly no fault of his own. He has a condition known as night blindness. It is not that he is completely blind, but he does have difficulty seeing, especially at night, and it is getting worse. Because of this, others have to help him with certain things. Daddy feels a certain responsibility for him, being the brother who lives closest to him. Daddy doesn’t call attention to it, but I’ve noticed the way he hangs around outside to make sure Uncle Henry gets back home after he has been somewhere, out in the field or to town. Daddy acts like he is doing something outside, piddling around with a tool or working on his truck or something, biding his time. But then when Uncle Henry comes by and calls out Hello or Good night, Robert to him, Daddy puts away whatever he is working on and comes into the house. I know Uncle Henry is probably aware of Daddy’s concern too, and is comforted knowing his younger brother is there for him. It must be a comfort to Aunt Violet, also, and I know it will be another worry for her when we leave; just something else for her to worry about when she already has her hands so full.

Allie, girl, you get yourself up out of that bed before I drop this bowl of chocolate gravy on your head! Aunt Violet laughs hardily at her own impromptu rhyme and gives my side a gentle poke with her foot as she goes by the pallet. Come on and get ready for some of this here breakfast. Aunt Violet is a jolly lady, always laughing and joking. Sometimes she seems more like one of the kids than an adult. How she has time for fun and games with all the work she has to do, I can’t say. But she does. She and Uncle Henry have eight children. Granted, two of them are married now, beginning families of their own, but she still has a houseful to manage. Gracie, you in here? I’ve brought you’ens breakfast, Aunt Violet calls, setting down her basket on the table and going out back to search for Mama.

Aunt Violet’s call for me to rise and shine did the trick of getting me out of bed. I certainly don’t want my boy cousins—Bernard, Melvin, and Travis—catching me in my jammies. I hurry into the bedroom and pull my everyday dress over my head. I dip the comb into the glass of water sitting on the dresser and run it through my tangled waves, working at the stubborn masses to make them lie down. Like it or not, moving day is here, and I need to join the others in preparation. Like my favorite teacher, Mr. Schauffler, used to say, A smile is a curve that sets everything straight. I need to set everything straight with this day and make up for some troublesome times I have given my parents the past few days. Maybe if I act the part long enough, I will start feeling that way. I take a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face and walk out to begin my day.

We are in our truck and finally on our way shortly before ten o’clock. I know Daddy is disappointed we got such a late start. He wanted to set out early, but by the time breakfast was over and we had said our good-byes, it was late morning. It was just so thoughty of you to fix breakfast for us, Mama told Aunt Violet when she came by with the food. Mama had intended for us to just have a quick breakfast of biscuits and sorghum. Instead, we all sat down to not only chocolate gravy but white gravy and Mama’s hot biscuits. Uncle Henry doesn’t think you can have one kind of gravy without the other. I supposed his kids learned it from him because the whole family, one after the other, ladled some chocolate gravy onto their biscuits and then added the white gravy. Then, there was a dab more of white and just a pinch more of chocolate until everyone finally seemed satisfied. Those gravy bowls must have circled the table a dozen or more times. It was a wonder anyone was able to eat the mound of gravy on his plate after the desired blend was achieved, but when everything was said and done, each plate was sopped as clean as a new pair of dentures. Then everyone declared it a fine breakfast and pushed back his chair. It was a good thing Aunt Violet knew to fix a dishpan-full.

After breakfast, Mama insisted on helping Aunt Violet clean up. Then came the good-byes and hugs and kisses. I could tell Daddy was growing more nervous by the minute by the way he kept putting his hands in his pockets then taking them out and rubbing his hands through his hair. He must have repeated this procedure a million times. Was I the only one noticing? I began to worry that he was going to rub his head bald. Poor Daddy.

This would be Daddy’s second trip to Elm Springs this month. He traveled this same road with Grandma and Grandpa Shoemate and Aunt Georgie just a few weeks ago after Grandpa read an ad in the Arkansas Gazette about work in the western part of the state. It’s a gamble, Grandpa said, talking to Daddy about it, but a gamble I’m willing to take. Let’s do it, Robert.

And, that’s how it started, with an ad in the paper. The Thursday after that, Grandpa, Grandma, Aunt Georgie, and little two-year-old Loeva all piled into Uncle Ed’s run-down Pontiac and headed out west. Uncle Ed is Mama’s youngest brother. He and Aunt Georgie were married July 21, 1937, and then he enlisted in the Navy the following year. Right now Uncle Ed is on the USS Wedderburn somewhere overseas. None of us are exactly sure where, as things like that are kept a secret. While he is gone, Aunt Georgie and Loeva are staying with Grandma and Grandpa, and if Grandma and Grandpa are to make a move to the western part of the state, so are they.

Daddy went with Grandpa to Elm Springs to check for a job. Once securing one, he returned on a bus as far as Harrison and then caught a ride home from there. And now here we are, all of us on our way to Elm Springs. It happened so fast. We don’t own a car, so we are making the trip in Daddy’s sawmill truck. Mama, Betty, and little Patsy are cramped together in the cab with Daddy while Winna and I sit in the back with the few things we are taking with us.

Winna is reclined on the quilts and bedding piled against the cab of the truck with boxes and crates arranged on either side, looking like she just might take a nap. I wonder how in the world she can be so calm. I’m up on my knees looking around nervously, holding on with my eyes what I have already had to let go of with my hands. Suddenly, I yell, Just a minute, Dad, I forgot something! I jump down from the back of the truck stumbling and actually fall in my haste. I run past the cab and toward the house. When I reach the front porch, I nervously look back to the truck. Daddy is drumming his fingers irritably on the narrow plastic steering wheel. I am back out of the house in a couple of minutes, breathless and teary-eyed. I see Daddy glance at my hands. I hope he doesn’t ask what it was I forgot because I’m not carrying anything. He only nods as I rush by. Daddy waits, wordlessly, as I climb back into the bed of the truck. Then he puts the truck into reverse and then into first gear. He toots the horn three times and waves to everyone before he pulls away. From the rear of the truck, I see our much-loved home grow smaller and smaller until it disappears completely from sight.

The day is sunny and mild; everything is lush and green. I look up at the tall pine trees on either side of the road as the truck winds its way down the hill past Uncle Rufus’s house and then on down the dusty road. The trees are tall and straight with the first limbs many feet up. They are thick too, making the woods dark even in the daytime. Often when walking back home from Uncle Henry’s, I become frightened at the dark shadowy timber, conjuring up in my mind all kinds of fiends behind every shady shrub. My heart begins to race as I walk faster and faster through the inky darkness with only arrows of sunlight piercing the blackness here and there. But there is no darkness in the rutted road today, only golden bright halos of sun smiling down on us as the truck bounces on.

There is a fresh scent in the air too, a mixture of lilac and honeysuckle. I take a deep breath savoring the aroma. I look to the left and see a number of people raking leaves and cleaning in the cemetery. Decoration Day is always the fourth Sunday in May. It looks like some individuals are getting ready for the big day by clearing away the dead leaves that have collected around the headstones and pruning the lilac trees and other plants growing in and around the cemetery. I guess that is what I am smelling. Tulips and crocuses are lifting their heads among the tufts of green grass. Decoration Day! That is something else we will miss! I throw up my hand in a wave at the many hands waving at us. How sad to miss seeing everyone at Decoration Day. Then there will be the family reunion this summer. Tears well in my eyes as I wonder how the family can have a reunion without us. When will we be back this way again? I squeeze my eyes shut to keep back the tears.

As the tears burn my eyes, my heart is thumping with excitement. How can I have two diverse emotions pulling at me at the same time? As much as it is breaking my heart to be leaving, I have to admit there is a part of me stirred up about what lies ahead. I have never been very far from home. The farthest I have ever traveled is to Mammoth Spring to the Old Soldier, Sailor, Marine, and Air Force Reunion that is held there each August. We have gone to the reunion a couple of times, and I’ve always felt like we were going on such a long journey both times. Even a trip to Grandma and Grandpa Stephens’s home on Pickren Hall Road, some ten miles away, is considered quite a distance. So to think of traveling all the way to Elm Springs, a distance of one hundred fifty miles, is exciting just in itself. Daddy even told us, "We will cross very steep hills and mountains on