A Homecoming
I've traveled down this road a hundred times in my life and in my mind. Usually in an old red Mercury covered in the red dust of Polk County. The road is asphalt now, but in my memory it is gravel. My cousin, John McReynolds, sits behind the wheel with an old briar pipe clenched in his teeth and a pouch of Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco rests between us on the bench seat. The cloud of red dust trailing the car obliterates the road behind us. In some places we have to slow down and pull to the far edge of the narrow road as a pickup or tractor approaches. The car has no air conditioning and your mouth has a gritty feel from the open windows and the hot August air. We reach a fork and turn left to navigate the rutted and bumpy road that jolts your insides and leads down to the bridge over Mile Branch. As we cross, the water is clear and alive with minnows, perch, sun fish, and even a bass or two if you know where to go. Once across, the road widens but is edged with deep gullies filled with thistle, blue stem, and wildflowers. As the car accelerates toward the small farmhouse that sits on the ridge, I feel giddy because I realize this is the last vestige of part of my heritage. Some of my family lived in the east before the Revolutionary War and they were farmers. All my families were farmers and followed the migration down the Appalachians through the south and into Southern Missouri. My great grandfather farmed and was a county judge. My grandfather left the farm to work in a lumberyard. My father moved to Kansas City and worked in a defense plant. I knew that after John died, this heritage would end, but while I could, I wanted to embrace it.
I was lucky that I got to share it with my children for a short time. We visited the simple stone foundations belonging only to history, small mounds where Indians pitched their tepees on the south side of a hill, and my children played in Mile Branch, but the clear water had long since gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment