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Up a Rutted Road

By Sharon Kirk Clifton

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Chapter 1
Up a Rutted Road
Daddy hated driving up the deeply-rutted mountain road that led to Uncle Glen's hardscrabble farm. The old tan Studebaker seemed to hate it, too. It creaked and crept around the hairpin bends.
Daddy jerked the steering wheel to miss a deep gouge. "Leastwise it ain't a-rainin'. This here red dirt turns into a reg'lar loblolly when it rains."
Mama gripped the edge of the dashboard as the car lurched in and out of a hole. "Charlene said in her last letter they had a gullywasher the first week of June, and it ain't rained since. Crawdad Creek was out."
"What about the swimmin' hole?" I said.
Mama shot me a smile over her shoulder. "Reckon it was right muddy for awhile, but I'm sure it's fine by now. Likely on the low side for lack of rain, though."
"We almost there, Daddy?"
He adjusted the rearview mirror to see me. "Yep, young'un, we're pert nigh there."
Back home in the dirty factory town where we lived, I often wished I was a bird and could fly away south. I'd dream of running through tall pasture grass with Elsie Blue at my heels.
The swimming hole was part of the fun. Crawdad Creek twisted among the trees and rocks along the northern edge of the farm. Mama wouldn't so much as dangle a toe into the spring-fed stream. "That water's colder than the devil's own heart," she'd said once. It was, too, even on the hottest summer days.
Mama twisted in her seat so she could look at me. "Cam, you excited about spending the whole summer on the farm?"
"You betcha!" I scooted forward from the back seat so I could hear Mama better.
"Me, too. It's been too long since I seen my big brother." Mama smiled at me before straightening in her seat. The last time we'd been down was two years ago, and that was for only one weekend. Last year, we didn't have the money for the trip, but this year Daddy had gotten overtime at the factory.
"How about Elsie Blue? Did Aunt Charlene say anything about Elsie Blue in her letter?"
"You and that hound dog," Daddy said.
"She's my favorite."
"Well, now, I don't recollect that Char—" Mama didn't get to finish her sentence before the front tires of the car bumped into a particularly deep hole. I bounced so high my head bumped the roof. I scooted back in the seat.
The higher we went up Squire Mountain, the more my ears crackled and closed. Mama took three sticks of Juicy Fruit chewing gum from her pocketbook, gave one to Daddy, one to me, and stuck the third piece in her own mouth. "Chew it, Cam. It'll help keep your ears from popping so bad." She didn't have to tell me twice. Juicy Fruit was my favorite.
Daddy yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, trying to miss another rut. "That brother of yours ought to get this here road fixed, if he expects folks to come calling. Big jolts like that ain't no good on the car's alignment, and it's a sure way to bust a tire."
"Glen's got about all he can do to make ends meet and keep the wolf away from the door." Mama twisted a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun. "These rocky fields are a lot of work. Reckon he ain't got time to fill in ever' hole in the road ever' time it rains."
Daddy nodded. "I reckon. He's got his hands full. He's work-brittle, for sure. Has to be. Shame him an' Charlene never had no young'uns to help with the farm."
I scooted forward again. "How come they never did have no kids? They'd make a good mama and daddy."
"They would have, at that," Mama said, "but the Good Lord never seen fit to bless them with young'uns."
"I think it's sad."
"Maybe while you and Camie are here I can make it down some weekends. Help Glen with some chores. Like fixin' this blame road." The Studebaker hit another hole and lurched, as if to punctuate Daddy's sentence.
"That would be nice, Daddy," Mama murmured. She hardly ever called him by his given name, which was Earl. I suppose she was afraid that if she did, I'd call him that, too. He didn't call her Caroline, either. She was Mama.
"Sure do wish I could stay the whole summer. But a man's got to make a livin'."
Mama nodded and pointed down the road. "Camie, keep your eyes up ahead. There on the left is that great big old rock you like to watch out for. Remember? Soon as we round it, you'll be able to see Uncle Glen's place." My heart began to pound—first, because we were about to go around the rock and second, because I'd soon see Aunt Charlene and Uncle Glen.
The road jutted out to clear the rock, forming a curve as tight as the tortoise shell hairpins that held Mama's bun. I forced myself to look out the right rear window. All I saw was empty space down to where Crawdad Creek rippled far below. The mountain seemed to drop away from the road at that point. I felt queasy. Pinching my eyes closed and taking a deep breath, I sank into the seat and sat stone still, afraid to move for fear I'd jiggle the car over the edge and down the mountain to the creek.
"We made 'er past the rock." Daddy was watching me in the rearview mirror when I slowly opened first one eye and then the other. His eyes crinkled at the corners, so I knew he was grinning.
Mama pointed to where the house stood. I leaned forward to get a better view.
It was a big, old-timey farmhouse in need of paint, but to me it looked like a palace. A front porch went all across the front and held two wooden rocking chairs, four old kitchen chairs, a stool, and a church pew. All were wooden, and all were weathered to the same soft gray as the house.
There was a back porch, too, every bit as big as the front one, but piled so full of stuff that little room was left for sitting. Barrels, milk cans, butter churns, garden tools, gasoline cans, old Nehi and Royal Crown pop bottles and crates, mud boots, cane fishing poles, broken chairs and who-knew-what-all had cluttered the porch. What a place to explore.
I looked to see if Uncle Glen was in sight. I knew he would tease me without mercy the whole summer long, and I was ready. It used to hurt my feelings until Aunt Charlene told me he pestered me because he liked me.
"If'n he didn't like ye, he'd pay you no mind. He'd just leave ye be. He teases them he loves. Why, ask your mama if'n ye don't believe me. He aggervated the livin' daylights out of her all the time they was a-growin' up, as I recollect." Mama had smiled and nodded her head.
Aunt Charlene was swinging on the porch, watching for us, no doubt. As soon as she saw the Studebaker, she hopped up and waved broadly. Then she ran to the rusty dinner bell and yanked the rope. The clapper banged the sides so hard I thought the bell would surely crack like the Liberty Bell teacher told us about. It set the hound dogs to bawling like their hearts were breaking.
Three of them came bounding around the house toward us, yelping all the way. In the lead was Elsie Blue, one of the older dogs. Her long ears swayed from side to side as she loped toward the car.
I reached for the door handle. "Can I get out? I want to see Elsie Blue."
Daddy laughed as he jerked the car to a stop.
Mama gave me a wink. "Girl, I swan. I don't know which you like best—that hound or your aunt and uncle."
As soon as my feet hit the dirt, Elsie Blue jumped up. Resting her big paws on my chest, she set to licking my face. I lost my balance and fell back, but Elsie Blue didn't miss a lick.
I thought she was the prettiest dog I had ever seen. Uncle Glen said she was a blue-tick coonhound. Her body was speckled and did have a bluish cast. Her face was black and white with reddish-brown eyebrow spots.
A cloud of red dust rolling across the cornfield behind Uncle Glen's tractor told us he had heard the bell and was on his way lickety-split to the house. I gently pushed Elsie Blue back so I could get up. I ran toward the house, Elsie Blue at my heels.
The summer was like a clean sheet of notebook paper waiting for a story to be written on it. I wondered what the story would be. Would it say I learned to swim? Would there be a part about Lee Ray Wilson actually talking to me?
Aunt Charlene hugged Mama. Then she turned to me, grinned, and gathered me into the circle of her arms, strong from years of hard work. She smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and homemade lye soap.
"Aw, young'un, give your Auntie some sugar." I peppered her cheeks with at least a hundred kisses.
She laughed so hard I thought she would fall down. "Whoa, young'un. Mercy me! Whooeee! We got the whole blessed summer ahead of us. Don't use up all your sugar afore it gets a good start."
Over her shoulder I saw Uncle Glen stop the tractor at the edge of the field and hop down. A grin as wide as a sunset spread across his face as he loped toward us.
"Is that my sweet Camellia Louise ye be a-lovin' on there, Charlie?"
Aunt Charlene let me go so I could hug Uncle Glen's neck. He smelled of hard work, red-clay dirt, and sunshine. And I loved it.
Things didn't change much down here. Aunt Charlene looked the same as she had for as long as I could recall. A long, thin grayish braid, the same color as the house, wrapped around her head like a halo. As always, she wore a feed-sack apron that covered the front of her cotton print housedress. Uncle Glen wore his usual faded bib overalls over a patched work shirt. A beat-up broad-brimmed straw hat shaded his head from the sun.
School had been out for nearly a week back home, but for me summer of 1950 had just begun.

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