Chapter 19

Noontime

We don’t truly go up the mountain as Grandpa’s hand showed. We wind around it. The path is steep, and the ground rock-hard underfoot. Stonewall balks when the trail narrows, and Grandpa coaxes him forward.

Parts of the path cling to the hillside like fungus to a log. I watch every step so that dang suitcase won’t throw me off balance. And I’m sure my right arm is longer than my left from carrying it. Aching from shoulder to wrist, I can’t even feel my hand anymore. I move the suitcase to my left hand.

Before long, my left arm aches. I switch the suitcase from one side to the other, and think on things inside it I could have left behind. It’ll likely be too hot for my shawl anyhow.

And I’m hot now. Drops of perspiration trickle down between my shoulder blades to dampen my underthings.

“Grandpa, can’t we stop and rest a spell?”

“Not til noontime.” It’s only midmorning.

No sweat dots Grandpa’s face, even though the Sears, Roebuck tent, his squirrel rifle, and a whole pack of supplies ride on his back. I recollect Daddy saying not to let Grandpa get too tired. I wish he’d told Grandpa the same thing about me.

Just before noon, Grandpa finds the perfect place to eat the lunch Aunt Freddie packed. Perfect because it’s right here, and I can’t drag that suitcase one more step.

Maple trees rim a clearing, and a creek splashes over a rock shelf. I lower my body to the ground and knead feeling into my hands. Grandpa fills a cup from the tiny falls and passes it around. It soothes my spirits from the inside.

The day shows no memory of the fog that began it. The sky is like Mama’s blue tablecloth, freshly ironed and spread across the heavens without a wrinkle.

A breeze stirs maple leaves above our heads as we eat our fill of Aunt Freddie’s cornbread slathered thick with butter. Wrapped in newspaper pages, the bread leaves buttery smears that blur the words. I breathe in the cornbread smell, the smell of home.

The splash of the creek, the stir of the leaves, and solid ground beneath me are like tonic. The tired feeling takes flight.

General licks crumbs from my fingers before he chases a squirrel. I wash my buttery hands in the creek and pull my letter book from the strap holding it against the suitcase.

David and Johnny scramble up a sturdy maple, and their feet dangle from a branch overhead. They toss an occasional pebble at me, but they’ll soon tire of it—or run out of pebbles.

I can rest a spell because Grandpa whittles on a block of wood from his pack. I wonder why he brought whittling wood. It’s more to carry, and the ground is littered with sticks. Must be he’s working on something special.