Road to Mound Grove

I remember that night, years ago, when we made our way down Indian Road on foot, to our frame house on the hill. It was the middle of the Great Depression, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know that we were poor. Some of our neighbors had less than we did. My head wobbled on my daddy’s shoulder with every step he took. I loved the cozy feeling of being in his arms. The rhythm of his walking reminded me of the rocking chair at home. I would be home soon, now that the lamps from Mound Grove Schoolhouse were far behind. The schoolhouse was where neighbors gathered for almost any reason. Sometimes it was for a pie supper, a wedding shower, or preaching, but tonight it had been a church singing. My daddy sang in his clear tenor voice and tapped his foot all the while. Mother could sing pretty too, but she only sang at home, and usually when she rocked me or my baby sister, Olaree. Mother walked beside us and carried Olaree over her shoulder. A few families in Mound Grove community had cars, but we didn’t have one. We made our way down the dusty Indian Road on foot, like most everybody else. The moon made long-legged shadows that stretched behind us. When my daddy took a step, his shadow followed close at his heels. I held on tighter, glad to be in his arms and not down there walking with the spidery shadows. “People here are having a hard time lately,” Daddy whispered to Mother. “I know,” Mother said. “Lots of men are out of work. I heard some neighbors talking tonight about President Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration. We’re lucky you have a job with the WPA.” “Scre-eech, Scre-eech.” A wild cry jarred my ears. “What’s that?” I flinched and tightened my arms around my daddy’s neck. “A screech owl,” he said. “Is he coming to get us?” “No, he’s just curious about us.” I snuggled closer and put my finger in my ear, but I could still hear. “Watch your step, Jim,” Mother warned. “There could be copperheads around.” “Watch your step, Jim,” I repeated. “Betty Jean, you’re almost three. You’re supposed to call me Daddy.” “Ok, Daddy Jim.” He chuckled and hugged me. “I like that.” I drifted in and out of sleep on his shoulder, feeling safe and secure. My parents turned off the dirt road and walked uphill toward the house. As the lane narrowed to a trail, the hill grew steeper and Daddy Jim’s steps grew slower. “There’s nothing heavier than a sleeping baby,” Mother murmured, shifting Olaree to her other shoulder. “Try carrying this one,” Daddy Jim said. Our door had been left unlocked, as always. In the country, we didn’t lock our doors. It would be a sign that we didn’t trust our neighbors. We never expected anyone to break in. What would they find if they did? Not much: old dishes that didn’t match, raggedy towels, and family pictures stuck in the corners of mirrors. I was born in this house, and didn’t know that it was only the first of many houses we would live in. Daddy Jim pushed the door open with his shoulder. The room looked dark, except for the spot of moonlight that came through the open window. He stopped without saying a word. My arms tightened around his neck. Mother stopped behind him. Daddy Jim carefully put me down on the bench nearby. He reached for a chair. On the floor, a partly-coiled shadow looked ready to strike at any second. I put my hands over my face and screamed, “A snake!” Daddy Jim crashed the chair down on the thing. I screamed again. He hit it twice more, and stopped. It didn’t move. Daddy Jim struck a match and lit a coal oil lamp. In the flickering lamplight, a tangled mess lay in a limp pile on the floor.