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Woven Patches
Di Susan Molina
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggere- Editore:
- Susan Molina
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 10, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9781301514373
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
The old Taite Plantation was built up-bank from the Ogeechee River, about twenty-five miles outside of Savannah, Georgia. By the end of the Civil War, the grand old place was just a skeleton of what it once had been. The fields were dry and empty, slave shacks were deserted, and old Taite had died just as his crops had. All that remained of the grand old place was the Negro cemetery and fifty or so old two-room shacks that held the haunting story of those who'd lived and died within their walls.
Libby Pace was brought as a small child to one of those old slave shacks and her daddy, just as others before him, built his own home on former slave land. The new land owners, just poor and dirt poor whites, named their community the Patch.
Libby tells the story of her life and those around her; such as the old Biddie sisters, the Pritchet's,the Justice's and Tater Johnson- a Negro peddler who came into her life and changed it forever as the daily lives of those who live within the Patch, become woven together and form a family cummnunity of neighbor helping neighbor.
Libby, always the teacher in life, finds through Tater Johnson, as she teaches him to read and write, he has far more to teach her of love and friendship not found in her books.
Woven Patches, the first book in a series, details hardships and stories of a community who cling to the Old South as the new one emerges. Laughter and tears blend in the reading of Woven Patches as Libby recalls a most "amazin' and full" life.
Informazioni sul libro
Woven Patches
Di Susan Molina
Descrizione
The old Taite Plantation was built up-bank from the Ogeechee River, about twenty-five miles outside of Savannah, Georgia. By the end of the Civil War, the grand old place was just a skeleton of what it once had been. The fields were dry and empty, slave shacks were deserted, and old Taite had died just as his crops had. All that remained of the grand old place was the Negro cemetery and fifty or so old two-room shacks that held the haunting story of those who'd lived and died within their walls.
Libby Pace was brought as a small child to one of those old slave shacks and her daddy, just as others before him, built his own home on former slave land. The new land owners, just poor and dirt poor whites, named their community the Patch.
Libby tells the story of her life and those around her; such as the old Biddie sisters, the Pritchet's,the Justice's and Tater Johnson- a Negro peddler who came into her life and changed it forever as the daily lives of those who live within the Patch, become woven together and form a family cummnunity of neighbor helping neighbor.
Libby, always the teacher in life, finds through Tater Johnson, as she teaches him to read and write, he has far more to teach her of love and friendship not found in her books.
Woven Patches, the first book in a series, details hardships and stories of a community who cling to the Old South as the new one emerges. Laughter and tears blend in the reading of Woven Patches as Libby recalls a most "amazin' and full" life.
- Editore:
- Susan Molina
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 10, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9781301514373
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Woven Patches
Anteprima del libro
Woven Patches - Susan Molina
Woven Patches
Copywrite 2013 by Susan Molina
All rights reserved under under International and Pan-American Copywrite Conventions
Book Cover Design by Amy Nault
ISBN No. 9-781-301514373
Published at Smashwords
****
Chapter One
I was born in Georgia, just as my mama 'n daddy was 'n their mama's 'n daddy's before'um. I was named after my mama, Elizabeth Pace. I'm told, it wasn't too long before I was born, that Daddy 'n Mama moved on into the Patch to live. Now, there are those who'd say the Patch wasn't such a bad place, but truth be told it could be. In fact there were times it was just plain sorrowful. I don't care how some folk try 'n build up their memories to more'n they were; they ain't real, they ain't facts. Facts are, the Patch was just misery at times for folks. Shoot..., it was nothin' more'n an old strip a land built up after slavery ended, that gradually filled up with poor whites. The Negros, just maybe with a tad more common sense at the time, moved out 'n on once the war ended. Most went on to Savannah, and with good reason.
After the war 'n with so many sick a death 'n hard times, Savannah spoke freedom 'n hope to people a all kinds. Wasn't just Negro folk who walked or rode there, but just bout anyone who wanted change 'n the promise a better. Savannah meant work for those whites who'd lost or sold bout all they had- and that was most of'um. It also meant the Negros who'd lived on the land that became the Patch, could put cotton behind'um forever as they hauled what little goods they had, with crippled backs 'n hands, to a sophisticated city known for fine homes 'n refinement.
There's lots a lore bout the Patch. But that's all it is for the most part, lore. People got so used to passin' on tales 'n stories from one front porch to the next, while sippin' a cool one into late evenin', no one even bothered as time went on, to care bout facts. It wasn't the facts overall, but the best tellin' a the tales that mattered more. And no one paid any mind to noticin' how those tales got taller 'n better with the re-tellin'. But it was good listenin', 'n a way to pass the time as one hot day rolled on into the next.
But I know the Patch, good as most 'n better'n some. I know it in ways most don't 'n never will. I know because whilst others were busy spinnin' yarns from porches 'n strugglin' just to make it through the day, I was busy livin' what would turn out to be a life rich in friends 'n experiences not known by most round me.
Now, what is true bout the lore a the Patch, is that yes, at one time it was a great 'n mighty plantation- rich in cotton 'n the slaves to work it. It was said, come harvest time everyone got some kind a bonus, be it bolts a cloth or extra flour 'n cornmeal. Heck..., some swear there was even a suey pig now 'n then thrown in. I don't doubt it. You get yourself a good twenty or thirty miles outside a Savannah back then, 'n them was rich furtile lands, all laid out with thousands a lush acres, filled mostly with cotton 'n a little tobacca thrown in here 'n there along with some goobers 'n corn. Them with the land 'n slaves to grow 'n produce, didn't have to depend on nothin' but sunshine 'n regular bouts a rain to stay money-fat year-in 'n year-out.
But it didn't stay that way. In time, the war brought down them who'd reaped so much from the work 'n misery a others. Thinkin' on it now, I do ponder in my head how it seemed so natual then, to buy 'n work another human being to near death, just because you could. Seems at times, the separation between us humans with animals is narrower'n we'd want to admit, 'n I've never seen any animal treat another as they say masters treated slaves.
By the time my family moved on into the Patch, most a the land'd been split up 'n sold off in pieces. In fact, when my kin moved in first married, there was then another war on, 'n again, as it remains today, every one was broke or near to it. They said the Spanish American War wasn't so bad after what the Civil War'd taken. In fact, it was said to have been, a splendid little war
by President Teddy Roosevelt.
But you know, war is war, 'n if you stop 'n think on it, it just doesn't quite make sense to kill eachother off, 'n declare a winner by who kills more faster'n the other. Maybe there wouldn't be so much war if we used a different word other than war
. It might just be better to say we are declarin' a killin' spree
. But in any event, in 1898 my Mama 'n Daddy happened upon the Patch like so many others who'd heard a places abandoned 'n land sold off cheap, just so some kind a money could be had from it. I don't think they were lookin' for much back then, but a start. That start became their lives, 'n mine.
Since the other war, the one that tore the Old South apart, most a the old slave shacks'd been torn down 'n new wooden houses built in their place, all but for a few. It was one a those last remainin' few that Mama 'n Daddy got. My daddy said he 'n Mama moved into their old run down slave shack 'n lived there whilst he built our home from the ground up all by himself. Daddy never talked much bout that time 'cept to say they lived in two rooms, 'n it was cold in the winter 'n a boilin' in the summer.
Thinkin' on it now, I'd guess for whites movin' into a slave shack, it would've been a right humiliatin' 'n humblin' experience, had it not been for the fact it was temporary, 'n I'm sure when the day came 'n they were able to tear that shack down, they'd done it with pride 'n speed.
It took Daddy the better part of a year to build our house. He said he'd wanted to do it right, 'n right meant workin' from sun up til sundown at the factory, usin' every dime he could muster from his pay to buy supplies. He took care to make the rooms large, with tall wide windows so as to let the air flow through. He built in the mist a big ole trees so Mama'd have the shade to block out the scorch a the searin' summer heat, well 'cept for a small patch Mama used to string a clothes line to hang her washin'. But many a those days he didn't have to shoulder the work alone. Our early sense a community in the Patch was bore outta neighbor helpin' neighbor get thieir start 'n Daddy had him some help for any buildin' needin' more'n two hands. But ownin' land made Daddy feel a little rich even if it was only a small piddlin' parcel a former slave land. Land was land, 'n don't nobody care who had it before, as long as he has it now. And that was how I began, so long ago, livin' in the Patch.
Daddy 'n Mama were good people; simple people. Daddy never learned to read much at all since he went to work so young back then. But Mama could read a bit better 'n she wanted more for me'n what she 'n Daddy'd had as far as schoolin' went. So I did get that. But with what schoolin' Daddy did have, he was proud of. And just so there was no doubtin' his abilities, even if he didn't have formal learnin', he burned our family name onto the front a our house across the top a the big ole front porch. There was no mistakin' the Pace home for those on foot or otherwise, to know it was the home a Wilbert, Elizabeth, 'n Libby Pace.
They weren't rich in babies like so many back then were either. Mama always said she'd had a dry womb 'n that was why I was an only child. I'd heard talk of another child before me, but Mama never talked bout it outright. I guess the pain was too bad to speak of. But I knew one'd died real little, from whispers 'n comments heard here 'n there. I never could hurt Mama by askin', but I just always knew, 'n tried to love her twice as hard.
Once we bought our little piece a land, it seemed as I was growin' up, more 'n more poor whites came 'n built too, even after us. Mama said it wasn't all that many after her 'n Daddy, but when your're little, a few does seem like a lot more. In due time, all the remainin' land that onced had shacks was gone. Sometimes, I wondered who'd had more sense, them that left soon after the war as they could; knowin' freedom 'n hope for the first time, or folks like us, who saw the Patch as our own way to our own kind a freedom in hard times. I guess truth be told, both sides made out alright in the final mix.
None a us who'd moved in ever claimed any town they were from, since we weren't any town. We were just all a bunch a poor people who'd tore down slave shacks 'n built houses on patches a land got cheap cause no else one wanted it. We built 'n became our own little community, looked down on, but as most said, Well at least we ain't a bunch a Niggers!
Somehow no matter how low one bein' could get, sayin' you ain't a Negro elevated you back up. Hearin' the word Nigger
all my life was common- just the way everyone talked. I wasn't quite sure what one was- since I'd never known one personally, but they did seem to be an exotic creature. I'd seen some from a distance a few times 'n as a young child, could not understand why folks got so upset 'n angry, but they sure did.
As lore went, sayin' the Patch didn't just come bout over-night proved though, it was like most things Southern, just a gradual happenin' dragged out for years that kind a came to be over time. But one thing that did always remain the same, was the sense a poor 'n community within the bounderies a this land. No one ever got rich livin' in the Patch but most all did make do for the most part, 'n all helped out a neighbor if they could when the need was there. The only rich that ever came outta this land were the Taite's, 'n even they ended up no better off 'n the ones who lived in their slave shacks by the time the war ended.
It is said before the war, the Taite's were among the wealthiest plantation owners in Georgia. Mr. Taite, it is told, was a smart 'n driven businessman. He calculated 'n planned everything he did not based on today, but on what it would give him tomorrow. Shoot..., folks tell, he even bought his land not just for fertility, but also for the ease a transportation a the harvests to Savannah. Being close to Savannah, not only meant he could complete his business in a day, it also meant he could entertain influential politicians 'n other wealthy landowners. The distance from Savannah was just enough to give him a closness to the center a his financial activity, while affordin' him his privacy to run his plantation as he saw fit, without much chance a uninvited guests just stoppin' by unannounced. Folks in our parts held an admiration for Taite 'n felt bad he'd lost all he'd worked so hard to build. Many still held a solid grudge against the Yankees for destroyin' the glory a the South- glory built from the blood 'n sweat a the bodies a slaves.
Just how many slaves were owned by Mr. Taite is debatable, since some said it was over a hundred 'n then some others claimed it was more like two-hundred or more. I guess there are records in Savannah that show a more exact figure, but it was a lot. Slave shacks were just all over the place in the Patch at one time, 'n I guess if you count the number a houses put up by whites, that'd tell you a pretty good count a the number a slaves owned by Taite. Daddy said there were near fifty shacks torn down over the years in his estimation. I guess, bein' off a slave shack or two doesn't make no difference to me now, but there was just a natural beginnin' to the Patch 'n a natural endin' to its borders over time.
It is said the Taite House remained on the land, deserted but for a squatter now 'n then, til the hurricane a 1893 tore through it. Ya'll can't see any remains a the big fine house now, but still do hear stories a the grandeur of it all. Lore has it, after the hurricane, folks helped themselves to the reckage 'n many a the houses built in the Patch, have materials a the Taite plaintation used in their construction. I don't doubt it since there are signs a fancy refinement here 'n there in the appearance of our houses. I guess if it hadn't been for the hurricane, the Taite mansion'd still be standin', regally back, far from the main road, behind all the big oaks covered in spanish moss.
I tried for years as I was growin' up to imagine the goings-on in that house through the times a prosperity for the Taite's. But then I'd have to imagine also the pain 'n sorrows a those who lived on the plantation in the shacks. Those times weren't talked bout much, but when they were, I can't ever recall a person speakin' a those times as wrong, just that they were times when the South was prosperous 'n the only regret I ever heard, was the Yankees takin' it all from us. I didn't want good 'n magical imagingin's mingled with those a the slaves, so in time I didn't think about it as much as I used to. But I did carry an uneasy feelin' inside a me I could never shake. I felt a sort of guilt within me, livin' as I did right where so many'd suffered.
One thing for sure is, no flood would ever have done it in since Mr. Taite was careful to build far up-bank from the Ogeechee River. Buildin' a ways from the river made for a nice strole in the early evenin's a summer, when cool comfort was needed most. I'm sure those folks took that same walk hundreds a times, just as I did with Mama 'n Daddy, to cool off come evenin' year after year.
Many an evenin' we'd walk along the lines a the dogwoods 'n oaks with Daddy a holdin' Mama's hand, while I ran off to pick wild flowers 'n collect lightnin' bugs in a jar. By early summer I'd always be hot-footin' it back to the house to put ice on my legs eaten up by the chiggers, but I'd have a nice bunch a flowers to put in a mason jar a water for the kitchen table. I always put the lightnin' bugs by my bedside at night so I could watch'um glow. Then come mornin'..., I'd have to go 'n throw'um all out since they'd die on me everytime. I wonder now if they were really dead or just slept durin' the day 'n if I'd thought of it then, I could've saved myself the trouble a collectin'um all over again.
The Patch hasn't changed all that much through the years. I sit out now on the broad front porch Daddy built 'n I'm glad we've had so little change as the years came 'n went. I guess the only changes truly, have been the tearin' down a the outhouse 'n then later, hookin' up with the power company. And truth be told, that's all we really needed anyways. Our dirt road leadin' from the main road has served us just fine, 'n years a comin' 'n goin' between our houses, created a most natural small pattern a little dirt streets, worn just as hard 'n flat as any blacktop would've been anyways. We have that tucked away feelin' from everybody else, 'n if you don't leave the Patch for a while, it's easy to imagine no other places exsist.
Like I said, we do take care a eachother if we can, 'n for as far back as I can remember, there's always been someone in charge a flippin' a newpaper on a porch; if you're signed up for one, 'n always someone willin' to grab your mail from the row a mailboxes off the main road if need be. Heck..., time was, we didn't even have that. Daddy used to talk bout how turns'd be taken to get the mail at the postal outlet at the Feed Store. But there was always a helpin' hand when the need arose whether it be splitin' wood 'n stackin' for the stoves, or turnin' earth to plant. The only difference was, who pitched in as the years passed on. But now, most children who grow up here do tend to move on, unlike those a my own generation who had to be forced out, if at all. Well most 'cept for Celia 'n me. We had our dreams 'n plans.
One who did go gladly was Ronnie Pritchet. My best friend Celia 'n I, that is Celia Justice, went to school with Ronnie 'n we still talk bout what a ruffin he was; as we were just sure he'd end up in a jail someday. Ronnie was just one a those wild boys who when bored, just couldn't find anything to do with his time that didn't involve mischief. If your mailbox was missin', it was sure you needed to march over to the Pritchets 'n grab Ronnie. 'N if you woke up in the mornin' with chickens runnin' wild, it was sure it was Ronnie that'd snuck into the yard at night 'n opened the coop door. We were all sure that boy'd never amount to more'n spit on the ground, but he sure surprised us all.
Now Celia 'n me, as I said, she was my best friend, used to be in the same grade as Ronnie. And Celia Justice would back me up, when I say Ronnie didn't care bout learnin'. In fact, Ronnie usually showed at school late most days lookin' like he'd just rolled outta the bed 'n right into his desk! He spent what time he did in class, takin' snoozes or actin' up. Now... he never messed with Celia or me... like he did some, since he knew we'd team up 'n take'um him down a peg, but he did pester 'n torment others every chance he got.
Ronnie was the youngest in his family, 'n that means you're either goin' to be whiny or tough as you grew. He had two older brothers who'd been long gone from the Patch, 'n I reckon, it was them who made that boy tough as he was, since that was how he was all along. But as I said, he surprised us all, 'n by the time he was near outta school, he was workin' like a mule everyday at the General Feed Store a couple a miles down the road. Oh..., he still had a bit a mischief in'um, but there was also this air bout him he'd become a man before most usually do. He carried himself tall, 'n just had that look a self-assurance bout'um. Now he didn't think he was above others, he just didn't believe he was below another. And yes..., I'll admit, he was a looker too. Each spring his hair'd begin to lighten until it was the color a corn silk, 'n by summer, his skin'd browned in tone like strong southern sweet tea.
Ronnie talked he had plans, 'n said he was just passin' the time in school til time for his plans to take place. We used to snicker a bit at'um, 'n Celia 'n I'd give each other looks like he was crazier'n a rabid coon, but he never was it turned out. By the time school was done, Ronnie was pretty much runnin' the General Feed Store 'n old man Marshall, the owner then, depended on him for most everything. It didn't seem long that Ronnie'd saved up enough to strike a deal with old man Marshall to take over the store, 'n that he did. It was nice though, to see all that mischief be put to good use, but Celia 'n I still shake our heads at the wonder a Ronnie Pritchet becomin' a true-to-life businessman!
It seems Ronnie had vision as he took over the General Feed. In time he made it into a big general store, complete with an ice cream store 'n fillin' station. Ronnie changed the name too, just so no one was mistaken bout who the owner was. Pritchet's General Feed became the place where all a us shopped in time for groceries 'n a weekly gas-up. It is also the place hot with talk a another war comin', now if President Roosevelt has his way. I don't know...but what I do know is, if Mr. Roosevelt thinks there's a need for us to get in the mix, then it's the right thing to do. I would never question President Roosevelt since in my opinion, he is for a fact one a the great ones as far as Presidents go. If he says this is what we do when he makes a decision, then that is what we need to do. But folks seem as divided on that as they were on sucession at one time. Pritchet's General Feed is also the only place where news outta the Patch goes, since even today in 1940, we are still as clustered together as they were when Mama 'n Daddy first came to the Patch.
Sometimes it seems that war is the cause a change round here for us, 'n not us ever changin' because a war. It was war that brought about the Patch, 'n again the hard times a war that brought Daddy 'n Mama here. I sometimes sit 'n wonder what a new war would bring to us since the Great War was such a terrible time livin' through; beginnin' a couple a years after my school days ended. For so long after that war, we all continued to talk a the poor soldiers we saw time to time, all filled with shell shock 'n their nerves on edge. Every time I saw one of'um, I thanked God Daddy didn't have to go. I don't think I could've stood seein' Daddy with the dead in his eyes; sometimes lookin' at me like he didn't even know me. I can only hope 'n pray that if another war does come, as some say it will, it stays over there in Europe like it has so far 'n, we all stay here this time. But as I said..., I just don't know since so many keep talkin' bout Roosevelt- just sure he's itchin to jump in on this one. I guess only time will tell now, but I do have a feeling. I can't tell for sure..., but something is brewin'. I just feel it. I can't be sure if the brewin' feelin' I have is one for far away or close by. I just feel it is all.
Just as we never imagined Ronnie Pritchet would turn out as he did, Celia 'n I never thought our lives would be as they were either. Always, as little girls growin' up playin' together, we talked a the day when we'd be full grown 'n gone with families a our own. Well, we sure did grow, but we was never gone. Both Celia 'n I are still here in the Patch, livin' across the way from eachother; able to see one another's front porches 'n sometimes, even smell what the other is cookin' up for dinner if the wind kicks up just right. I know when Celia's fryin' up green tomatoes 'n she surely knows when I'm ready to take the cornbread from the oven. Knowin' what the other is doing, has just been the way it's always been for us. Growin' up together 'n so close to one another the way we did, has made our lives more as one life in most ways, 'n only a bit separate durin' the years when Celia was first married.
Now I am sure it's soundin' like the Patch was just a quiet 'n peaceful place for poor whites to settle 'n raise families. At times it was just that. But truth be told, it was more like a place that just couldn't seem to shake the sorrows sowed into the earth by those before us, who'd worked the land for generations. More 'n once, I'd wondered if the legacy a the Patch was that no one who tried to reap the rewards a those who sweated 'n bled to build this land, would ever find peace in it. There was to be no forgiveness for the Taite's, or anyone else who lived on Taite land. Deep in my gut, that is my belief, since it seems like everytime things were goin' well, something always happened to spoil it. Sometimes it was babies born still, times it was some wild drunkerd goin' on a rampage 'n beatin' the daylights outta his family, 'n times, far too often, when death came callin' durin' the night for an old one. Peace was nice, but peace also meant something bad was ready to happen in some way or another.
As I said, Ronnie Pritchet made good. He moved on outta the Patch onced he took over for old man Marshall, 'n built himself a big fancy home not far from the store. There he raised his own family, but his family home in the Patch; the Pritchet place, always stayed in the family 'n was passed on to Ronnie's daughter Lacy, just as Celia 'n I kept our daddy's 'n mama's houses. Come evenin', I can look over at Celia's 'n then a ways the other way, 'n see clearly onto the Pritchet's property. Strange, but it never occurred to me when Lacy, Ronnie's first born, moved into the family home, how significant she would be to our lives over time. I never imagined she would be the drivin' force of so much that followed, but she was.
As a young girl, I did want to move on 'n out like Ronnie had, but not the way he did. Celia said that was what she wanted too, 'n in time she did. She found a job in Savannah as a secretary at some law office 'n met a fellow. She settled down then to have babies 'n iron clothes just like her mama had before her. But when her folks got on in years, she began to come back to care for'um on a regular schedule that afforded us time together we'd missed for years. In time, her folks were gone 'n again in time, her children moved on. Then her husband died real fast one day when his heart gave out all of a sudden. But I was there for Celia, just as I'd always been since we were little. I guess truth be told, there was no one I loved as I did Celia Justice, 'cept for Daddy 'n Mama.
Even though I too wanted to move out 'n on all my years growin' up, when the time came, I just couldn't; I was too scared to go. So I got a job teachin' at the school we'd all gone to all our lives, 'n just stayed on with Daddy 'n Mama. I kind a wish sometimes I'd met someone, but I never did really. In fact that was what Mama seemed to want more'n anything in the world 'n she'd tell me oh so often, Libby, I just can't wait for you to fill this house with grandbabies for me!
For as much 'n often as she said it, when it just didn't come about, I know in my heart Mama was sorrier than I was bout my outcome.
Mama 'n I were close. We were as close as any mother'n daughter could be 'n maybe more'n most, since I was the only child born alive to her. Mama was always there for me, 'n in my life til she passed, but me, well I was Mama's life 'n I never once doubted it. Some would think I'd been spoiled, but it wasn't really so. Daddy 'n Mama had a vision for me to be a proper lady 'n they took time to make me so. Mama had a firm but lovin' nature bout her, 'n I knew just how hard to push her before she'd stop me short.
Now Daddy..., well he could've spoiled me, but instead he'd just look over to Mama with a nod when he thought I needed correctin', 'n Mama'd take over. I think some a the reason I turned out as I did, was me not wantin' to dissapoint either a them; beings I was their one 'n only child. When you're all there is, there ain't any second chances to get it right by lettin' another do it, so you are it. I did my best to be their best 'n in the long run, I did turn out fine, if I do say so myself.
Just like I was all to Daddy 'n Mama, Celia was all to me in time too. She was my very best friend 'n what I imagined havin' a real sister'd be like. We played together as children, just as we grew into young women together. Some days now, I sit out on the big old porch with my embroiderin', 'n I'll look up 'n out to the field off yonder. In my minds' eye, I can still see Celia 'n me as kids, runnin' 'n laughin' amongst the colors a the wild flowers growin' thick 'n tall with each sunrise. Yes there we were, Celia with her beautiful long red hair a flyin' in the sun, 'n me tryin' to catch up to her with my chestnut brown braids bouncin' off a my back. We'd run 'n run til one a us would just give up 'n fall to the ground in a fit a breathless giggles, that signaled to the other it was time to stop. I do miss those times.
I seemed to miss a lot now, along with so many a the folks who've come 'n gone through the years. I miss the old Biddie sisters. I miss them in a powerful way sometimes. They were Beatrice 'n Buella. Actually, their family name was Johnson, but through the years they just became known as the old Biddie sisters 'n the name just always stuck. Lore has it, their men died in the war against the Union, 'n them, like so many others, ended up planted here in the Patch. They lived alone for all a their lives here, 'n when one died off, the other quickly followed. But durin' the time those old gals lived here, they were a favorite a Ronnie's to torment.
Now those two old women were spry, but they could also be real crabby 'n mean! Celia 'n I used to dread havin' to pass their house since it never failed, one or both would be sittin' out on the front porch, just lookin' for somethin' to pick at us for. Either we ran too fast or giggled too loud, or if we tried to quietly walk by- sure enough, old Buella or Beatrice would snap, Ya'll ain't foolin' anyone ya know! We know your a gossipin' bout us, even if ya'll are tryin' to whisper!
I know it sounds spiteful, but we always got a kick outta Ronnie tormentin' the old Biddies.
It is said the Biddies had a history of a troubled past. How much is lore 'n just what is truth, I don't rightly know, but what I do know, is that whatever happened to those two women, it made them nasty 'n onery! But folks say there was a lot a death in their family real close together at one time from sickness speadin', 'n that turned'um hard. Turnin' hard was their way a survivin' I guess, 'n it did seem it worked. Both lived long into old age, just passin' shortly before Mama 'n Daddy were gone. Like Mama 'n Daddy went, one right on after the other, the Biddies went close together too. I guess you don't have to be married to feel so close that one person can't make it alone without the other. All you need is the sharin' of a life.
I can't count all the dead I've seen go through the years anymore. Bein' so close together here 'n for so long, it was just natural most would all die off in time. But that never made it any easier. And it wasn't somethin' as a young girl, I'd thought about much. As natural as it is supposed to be, I was never one to deal well with death 'n
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