In an age where technology wars race all around and companies are vying to have the next “it” product, it seems impossible to believe that there are still places where modern life seems to come to a halt as if one has walked through a portal to the yester-year way of life and living: where things like honesty, integrity and faith in God are the norm and not an occasion to stand and gape. By the grace of God, I have managed to find such a place hidden among the flat back roads of The Natural State.
In my early twenties, failures in life, and family illnesses, brought me once again to my parents’ doorstep. After having spent the past several years living in relative hotspots like Cape Cod and Atlanta, coming back to the mosquito-ridden flatlands seemed like a bit of a downgrade to me. I wasn’t there long before I started craving the bright lights and constant flow of city life. In order to distract myself from my new reality, I busied myself finishing my college degree and concentrated on little else. For several years, I plodded along, enviously remembering the “fun” of yesterday and studying for that next test.
I met “him” during my final year of college. My father had been called to preach at a small country church and, after a few months, I too began to attend. Our romance was not immediate, both of us having been severely burnt before, though our interest in each other was. We would, perhaps, still be playing that stolen glances game of early lovers had not some friends of ours nosed in.
The odds were immediately against us. He was country and I a city girl trapped in a small town. He spent his time working on his family farm and hunting, I spent mine studying and reading. He had three girls; I had a fish, a cat, and a dog. He was eighteen years my elder, I was living at my parents’ house (again). Despite the odds, a romance began.
We’d been dating several months before I ventured out to “the farm”. The night before Chuck had forgotten his credit card in my car. I was sure that it would be several more days before I saw him again, so I decided to take the card to him. I knew that he was on the tractor, busily preparing for planting season, and thought it might be funny to mess with him by having his card suddenly appear in his truck. After getting directions from a friend, I hopped in my gray, coupe sized sedan and nervously headed in what I hoped was the right direction.
In the years since my return, I had learned to appreciate the beauty that the Delta has to offer. It might not be the flashy mountains of our neighbors, but it is impressive in its own way. This time of day, this time of spring, the flatlands are bursting with life. The trees are once again clothed in various shades of green and if you look closely, you might spy some deer venturing out from their canopied shelter for a bite of fresh greenery. Massive tractors trek back and forth across the fields in the marathon that is planting season; soft, dark trails of freshly turned soil give testament to the paths they’ve taken.
I became a bit apprehensive as to the accuracy of my hand-drawn map when the dirt road I was traveling on seemed to take me back in the direction I had originally come, past the same tractors I had just admired only now on the other ends of their fields. In the distance, at the end of the field, splashes of red could be seen through the trees. A redbrick home came into sight and my faith was fully restored when I spied a familiar green truck. I quickly began to second-guess my brilliant plan when I saw a small, white SUV parked outside the brick home. I had given no thought to how I would introduce myself to his mother and sister, and to tell the truth I wasn’t sure if they even knew that I existed. Since I was more than halfway down their drive I had no choice but to continue on my chosen path. I dreaded meeting them like this. I had always imagined us meeting under more inviting circumstances rather than me awkwardly blurting out, “Hi! I’m a ….uh…FRIEND of, uhm…Chuck’s? He…..uh,….left his credit card in my car (at which point I would suddenly throw my arm into the air, holding up the clenched card to add validity to my story). I was just, uh….gonna put it in his truck.” Yea, that would work out great. First impression = MORON!
I took a deep breath for added bravery, climbed from my car and knocked on the door. My hopes began to rise when no one came. Before I got too excited, I knocked again. Still there was nothing. Then it dawned on me. Besides Chuck's truck, there was only one other vehicle here, not two! His mom and sister must be at the garden! Relief flooded through me as I bounded down the cement steps and quickly walked to Chuck’s truck. As I reached the cab of his truck, I paused a moment to take in the sights around me.
The houses and buildings formed an almost perfect semi-circle from my left to my right. Small trees and flowering shrubs framed the quaint, redbrick house and the aged, wooden porch that jetted off the back somehow reminded me of my grandmother’s mountain home. A massive picnic table of weathered wood and metal pipes rested in the shade of an old, oak tree. The rutted driveway continued directly in front of me leading to a workshop of sorts. The roofline sagged like an old man’s shoulders at the end of a long day and the large, tired doors were wide open as if inviting me to come on in and work for a bit.
Colorful chickens lazily pecked around, slowly meandering from one promising spot to the next. With a flurry of feathers, and a loud BAWK my attention snapped towards the patriarch of the buildings. An old, wooden house stood, still holding its prideful place among the conglomerate of aged farm equipment and rusted vehicles. A screened porch with a dangling door stood testament to the barrage of laughing children who had abused it through the years. The once shiny metal roof still did its best to protect its charge, but the harsh Arkansas weather and old man time were finally starting to wear it down.
Through the screen I could see pieces of Chuck’s heritage. An old beautician’s chair shared space with a high-backed wheelchair. A wooden WWII airplane propeller leaned against a gray metal cooler. My curiosity began to win me over and I found myself involuntarily stepping towards the old homestead. I paused, shaking my head as if waking from a dream and turned my attention to the last building. This one was still very much in use. Its yellow-chipped wooden siding gave it a charming appeal. Hanging baskets overflowing with greenery invitingly dangled from the small covered porch. Monkey grass, with its purple spring blooms, lined both sides of the steps inviting one to enter. Through the window, and sheer panel curtains, the round head of the dryer gave evidence to my guess that this was his mother’s beauty shop.
Before I had occasion to revel any more, I heard a sound that sent my heart racing and had me cursing myself for my wasted time. I froze in fear. Since I could see Chuck’s tractor slowly crawling at the far end of the field, I knew that the crunching gravel behind me meant one thing: his mom and sister were back! My heart began to race as I tried to figure out what to do. My back was still to them as the vehicle passed behind me and came to a stop in front of the brick house. What do I say? What do I do? Come on, Mel! Pull it together! Whatever you do, don’t say anything stupid! Finally, I turned; facing the small, dust-red pickup with what I hoped was not a stupid smile.
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