News
The air hints of frost, though trees still clutch the last of their leaves. The crops are laid by for winter, and Mama pushes hard with lessons. She wants me to write more. I haven’t written in my letter book in quite a spell on account of writing letters to living folks.
Mama expects more than letter writing, so I write about kin. I write about Edwin and Cora coming over the mountain, Rebecca being born in the cave, and George going to court to fight for land marked with a tomahawk.
After I write all I recollect hearing, I ask Grandpa for more. I tell him I aim to keep the kin alive in words until I’m ready to think about marriage and babies.
Come to find out Grandpa’s mama taught him to read, same as Mama taught me. His text book was the Bible. I ask about his sisters who died of typhoid, and learn that Carolyn could shoot near as well as Grandpa.
When I drain Grandpa’s mind of every drop he can recall, I ask Mama about her kin. After all, I am the last of her branch, too. Her grandpa was a riverboat captain. I fill nearly three books and search for more to write.
Mama is pleased, but she doesn’t let up on lessons.
We discuss events in the newspaper. A year after my trip, we read about the death of General Chamberlain, Mr. Redmond’s commander. He died of complications from an old war wound—from fifty years before!
The news also tells of war in Europe, but President Wilson vows to keep our country out of it. Daddy says war is like a wildfire, and flames don’t heed borders.
I talk to Grandpa about this new war, and his eyes cloud with shadows of the past. He’d rather talk about ancestors.
He spends a heap of time at Crutchers’—Aunt Freddie’s home now. I suspect the young’uns are what draw him there.
Lizzie is the youngest, and Grandpa dandles her on his knee the way he used to do with me. She is the match who re-lights his eye-candles after the Gettysburg trip snuffed them out.
They glimmer when he plays mumblety-peg with David and Johnny. If I got a mind to, I could whup all three of them. But I spend my time with writing and lessons. And letters.
Chance writes every week. Not long after after General Chamberlain died, he writes that his grandpa died, too. I recall Mr. Redmond fondly, and I reckon those two old soldiers are finally having their reunion.
He also writes about his college classes. I know there are women there, smart women who have more in common with Chance than a hill girl like me does. When he writes of learning Latin, Mama gets a Latin book from Dr. Foster, and I study Latin, too.
She delights in teaching, Mama does. She wants to teach the Crutchers to read and write, but Mr. Crutcher doesn’t set as much store in education as Mama. He tells his young’uns learning is up to them, and Molly is the only one who treks down to Mama at lesson time. But Molly laps up learning like cats lap up milk.
I reckon Mama will always have pupils. Nancy Willoughby had twin girls a month ago, and Mama goes to their place whenever she has a mind to fuss over a baby.
