"The day is at hand. For the lessons to be learned, the work to be done, the transformation of character to be effected, the time remaining is but too brief a span."2
As George drove into the driveway at the
end of the holler, he saw Grandma Baxter sitting in an old fashioned
wooden rocker, fanning herself vigorously. Her house was old and
badly in need of paint but surprisingly neat in appearance, George
thought, as he and Billy got out of the truck. Shaded by two box
elders, their leaves withered by the heat, with several lovely
orange honeysuckle vines climbing the porch railing, despite the
lack of rain, the house sat quietly and contentedly among the
ancient hills.
Grandma Baxter was about eighty, George
judged, slight of build and stooped over in the usual manner of
women her age. Her cheeks were rosy from an outdoor life of working
in the garden and tending her cows and chickens. Her graying hair
was neatly fastened in a bun and she wore a lovely blue bonnet
with a white lace fringe. She had the prettiest smile George had
ever seen. She was wearing a plain, long blue gingham dress, such
as he imagined mountain women wore in the last century.
She rose gracefully, extending both hands
in greeting to George and Billy. “Welcome, its so nice to
meet Grace’s husband. And your Billy,” she beamed.
“I’m thirsty,” Billy blurted,
“you got any Coke.”
“Billy...,” George was about to
protest, but she cut him off.
“I’m sorry Billy but all I have
is water.”
Seating himself on the porch, at her invitation,
after she fetched them each a glass of water, George politely
inquired, “are you having problems with your well?”
“Hit ran dry last month,” Grandma
replied ruefully, “but then hit started flowin’ again,
though not tis strong as in former times. I’m a’feard
I might loose hit altogether. If that happens,” she said
with a profound sadness in her voice, “I would have ta move
into town.”
An old long hair, gray Persian cat with
green eyes, and a black tail, held high, sauntered onto the porch
and brushed against George’s trouser led.”
“This here’s Muggins,” Grandma
said, gesturing toward the cat who was purring loudly to be petted.
Not overly fond of cats, George, more from
courtesy then fondness, bent down and stroked the cat’s fur.
“Daddy,” Billy said, peering through
the front window, “look at all those clocks. Grandma, can
I see them.”
George grimaced and was about to apologize
for Billy’s inquisitiveness, but Grandma only smiled and
beckoned them into the front room.
The many large windows allowed an abundance
of fresh air and sunlight to defuse the shadows while the ruffled
curtains, pulled back to admit the least suggestion of a breeze,
lent an elegant charm to the room. The doors and windows were
framed in wide, dark, highly polished oak, the ceiling was at
least ten feet high, a dark maroon floral carpet covered the floor,
and lovely landscape paintings hung from the walls. An ornate,
tear drop, light fixture was suspended from the ceiling while
fabric covered lamps graced several end tables.
But the thing that caught George’s
eye were the variety of clocks that filled every nook and corner
of the room. Relics of a period that lived only in the memory
of the one who cherished them, they hung from the walls and covered
the old-fashioned, dark mahogany mantel over the fire place..
Clocks were her hobby, she explained and
gave her considerable enjoyment in collecting and repairing them.
Moving around the room, George noticed several
photographs, yellow with age, of a beautiful young woman, wearing
a long, flowing white dress. Here was another photograph of the
same woman, now wearing a darker dress with a small boy standing
next to her side, while an older man, whom George judged to be
Grandpa Baxter was standing behind her with his arm resting protectively
on her shoulder.
They made a charming couple, he thought.
He was obviously in love with her and she returned that love,
smiling at him, radiant with joy and hope. The same joy was on
her face even now as they resumed their chairs on the porch.
Darting ahead of them, Billy began poking
at a brown chicken who was doing its best to ignore the inquisitive
boy.
“Hay, Daddy, this chicken’s got
red hair.”
A battered, blue pickup truck pulled into
the driveway and a middle aged man, wearing bib overhauls, heavy
brown work boots and a slouch hat got out. As he strolled across
the yard, he smiled at Billy, waving a friendly greeting.
“There’s Angus,” Grandma
said, breaking fourth with a broad smile.
“How ya doing’,” Uncle, she
asked?
“Fine, jist fine,” he replied
in a lazy drawl.
“This here’s George Ballard, Grace’s
husband, and that’s his son Billy,” she said pointing
to the boy who was climbing her split rail fence. The chicken,
having squawked its protest at being disturbed in its pursuit
of dinner, Billy had moved onto more interesting exploits.
“When I were his age,” Angus said
meditatively, “I liked ta climb fences.”
Grandma smiled, “ya still do, ya ol’
rascal.”
Angus shook hands with George, then glanced
at Billy. “Mind if I meet your son.”
“No, of course not,” George replied.
Angus stepped off the porch and sauntered
over to Billy who was hanging upside down from the fence, watching
a cow, in the pasture, chewing its cub
Angus was tall and lean, with a weather
beaten face, rugged, farmer’s hands, twinkling blue eyes,
and a black beard with specks of white that encircled his lower
jaw to fade into his hairline.
George relaxed for the first time that day.
Taking a moment to examine his surroundings, he liked what he
saw. Set among the foothills, at the end of a holler, they embraced
the house with arms of love and beauty. Fleecy white clouds floated
in the sky while the sun gilded the hills in colors of gold and
amber as it moved toward the west.
While Grandma shared some of her early experiences
and hardships of life in the mountains, George, who scarcely heard
her comments, basked in the quiet, restful somnolence of the valley.
His heart was stirred by this simple life, free of the hurry and
scurry attendant upon the preoccupation with money making. Watching
Billy and Uncle Angus, who was teaching his son how to split rails
with a mallet, George felt the drawing power of the hills. They
beckoned him, testified of their Creator, and opened their arms
of love to embrace him also. Slowly, like the rising of the sun,
there awakened in his heart, unfathomed springs of yearning that
were, for the moment, beyond his comprehension.
How beautiful these hills, how peaceful
their repose upon the bosom of the earth, unaffected by the traffic
and commerce of the world. They knew nothing of political intrigue,
social upheavals, or injustices of a myriad hues and varieties.
The valley drifted into darkness, golden
flames erupted upon the summits of the mountains as the trees
caught the western sun, held it for a moment in an embrace of
fondest love and gratitude before relinquishing it. The clouds
burst fourth with reds, purples, oranges, and yellows as the sun
caught their under surfaces, while the moon shown brightly in
the eastern sky, and the stars twinkled their joy.
George gazed at the seen with unspeakable
wonder. Awed by the handiwork of the Creator, for a brief moment,
he opened his cold heart to the warming rays of God’s love,
but only for a moment.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains,
bringing a welcome coolness to the atmosphere, George was reminded
of his errand. He was astonished to realize that they had talked
for almost three hours, so pleasant the conversation and the remembrances
of Grandma Baxter. He found himself taken with this charming woman
in a way that he had never been affected by any other woman. She
had a dignity and charm that he found enchanting, pleasant and
refreshing. She was dignified in her manners and conversation,
none of the not so subtle flirtations that other women acquaintances
of his were fond of. She was calm, quiet, reserved, modest in
the portrayal of her youth and its hardships. No boasting, or
exaggeration, only a matter-of-fact statement of its hardships
and joys, the loneliness and beauty of the hills. A woman, reared
among these mountains, he realized, could truly be lovely, not
just in physical looks, but in character.
That’s it, George thought, there’s
something different about her character. Its-- he paused for reflection,
its refined, he concluded to himself, She has a refined character,
a nobility of bearing, a womanly charm seldom seen outside of
these hills.
Uncle Angus and Billy returned from cleaning
Grandma’s hen house, followed by Muggins, just as the evening
shadows finally claimed the valley.
“Ye got a wonderful boy, here,”
Uncle Angus said, rubbing Billy’s head affectionately. “He’s
a good helper.”
Billy smiled at these rare words of appreciation
from a man.
As Uncle Angus and George loaded the piano
into his pickup truck, George inquired into the state of his cattle,
knowing that many farmers, unable to pasture them, were selling
off their hoards at bargain prices.
Pushing his hat back on his head and mopping
his neck with a blue checkered handkerchief, he stroked his beard
thoughtfully “Going to have to sell ‘em next week. Can’t
feed ‘em any more, water's gone bad on me. Gonna loose the
whole herd.”
George commiserated with him. Farmers all
across the country, he knew, were facing the same problem, much
to the delight of the consumer, who saw their meat and poultry
bill decrease as the glut of port, chicken, and beef caused prices
to dip to their lowest level in forty years.
Like everything about this lovely house,
the piano was old and dark. Polished lovingly by its owner, it
shown with a dark luster, not altogether unpleasant. Properly
tuned, George judged, and repaired, it might bring several thousand
dollars in the hands of a skilled auctioneer.
“Such a lovely piano,” George
mused, running his hand over its smooth surface and admiring its
dark cherry wood color. “Are you sure you want to part with
it.”
Grandma Baxter smiled up at him as she patted
his arm. “An old lady, like me, no longer needs a piano she
can’t play. The arthritis, in my fingers, is gettin’
so bad, why I can’t even hold a knittin’ needle no more.
I hope your lovely wife will enjoy it. Tell her I send it with
my love, and may the good Lord bless its use,” she said with
a lovely smile as she gazed into George’s eyes with an upturned
face.
“You could sell it for five thousand
dollars,” George protested, feeling slightly amused at the
intensity of Grandma’s expression and twinkling eyes.
“But then your wife wouldn’t have
the pleasure of playin’ and singin’ for the glory of
God.”
George was courteous and made the appropriate
noises, but he wasn’t happy with the idea of his wife making
joyful noises for the Lord. She already made too many noises in
that direction for his satisfaction.
Grandma Baxter’s smile bothered him.
It was as if she read his mind, saw its hidden secrets, and, instead
of condemning him, bathed him in her love and joy like Grace used
to bath Billy when he was a wiggling baby, kicking his feet in
delight as she spread baby oil over his stomach.
George went in search of his son, who was
now Daniel Boone building his log cabin. This irrepressible boy,
George apologized for the thousandth time that day, just would
not stop his restless roaming among the hills and mountains.
Grandma Baxter laughed good naturedly as
she went in search of some cookies.
“Boys will be boys,” they said
in unison, laughing together in mutual enjoyment as Billy crammed
two warm chocolate chip cookies into his mouth, smearing his cheeks
with chocolate. George was surprised with himself. For the first
time in many years, he was genuinely amused by his son’s
antics. Somehow, this gracious woman had gotten him to forget
about his irritation and impatience and actually laugh at his
own foolishness. Truly amazing. She had coaxed out of him something
that he didn’t realize was there.
“Now, ya be careful, Uncle Angus cautioned,
stroking his beard thoughtfully, “I hear tell them forest
fires are around here somewhere and ya gotta watch out on these
here narrow roads.”
But George was confident, now that he knew
the way to Grandma’s house and didn’t take Uncle’s
caution too seriously, besides the fires were miles away. Despite
the acrid smell of smoke that seemed to permeate everywhere, he
felt assured that no danger threatened. The air was calm, only
a slight breeze stirred the dried branches of the box elders,
as he and Billy climbed into the truck.
Learning out of the window, as he started
the motor, he regretfully said good-by to Grandma Baxter and Uncle
Angus, strangely reluctant to leave this wonderful place with
its Cookoo clocks that, not quite in unison, struck the hour of
8:00 P.M., with a delightful cacophony of sounds. The smell of
the place and the charm of the woman would never leave his mind,
he thought, as he headed down the “holler” back to civilization.
His last view of Grandma Baxter and Uncle Angus were of two old
folks, one bowed with age and the other only recently a stranger
to a youth spent among the hills, standing on the porch waving
vigorously as the box elders stirred with a rising breeze.
“Can ye sit a spell, Uncle,” Grandma
queried, as George’s tail lights disappeared in the distance?
“Strange man, that feller,” Uncle
Angus commented, as he seated himself on the porch and crossed
his legs, gratefully accepting a glass of freshly made lemonade.
“I’d say that man ain’t thinkin’ straight.”
Old Muggins, purring loudly, jumped into Angus’s lap, nestled
into the crook of his arm and purred contentedly as Angus stroked
his gray fur.
“He’s got a nice son,” Grandma
replied, mopping her forehead, despite the coolness that the evening
had imparted to the breeze. The house radiated the heat of the
day, making the porch a delightful place on which to welcome the
appearing of the stars.
For a quiet moment, they sat in peace and
tranquility, their rocking chairs making a soothing creaking sound
as the crickets sang in harmony with their thoughts. The cows
mooed contentedly in the barn, the chickens settled down for their
evening rest in the hen house, while the stars grew brighter in
the darkening sky.
“Boys' som’at talkative,”
Uncle Angus commented after a long, introspective moment as he
gazed down the holler. “Notice how his father keeps ‘pologizin’
for him, thank that mans conscience bothers him.” Uncle Angus
was something of an amateur psychologist, although he didn’t
realize his rare ability for sizing up another mans character
after only a few moments acquaintance.
“Heard from your boy lately,”
Grandma inquired, sympathetically, as she twisted her handkerchief
in her lap?
“Na, he don’t write much, haven’t
heard from him but once or twict in ‘bout twenty years. Think
he’s livin’ in one of ‘em big Northern cities,
Chicago, or someplace, doing what, don’t know, maybe playin’
gitar in some bar or dance hall,” Angus said, leaning his
head back in the chair as he gazed at the twinkling stars.
“Don’t be too hard on Andrew,
Uncle, he was awful young when he left home,” Grandma replied
gazing at the man sitting next to her in companionable silence.
“’Bout ten year old, darn near
broke his mother’s heart. Don’t know why he left, he
had everything he wanted,” Angus said meditatively, as he
stroked his beard, then removed his hat, laying it on a small
table next to his chair. It was too hot for hats, this evening,
he thought, forgetting the incongruity of wearing heavy overhauls
and boots.
“You know these youngones, they git
into their head that things is better in the big city, like the
cow that thought the grass twas greener on the tother side of
the fence.”
Angus laughed while stroking Muggins’
fur thoughtfully. His face, long a stranger to mirth, relished
the unexpected emotion and desired more, but quickly returned
to its accustomed sadness. “She couldn’t stand it, ye
know. Cried awful lot those first few months. Boy meant a lot
to her. She was never the same again.”
Grandma Baxter saw the pain in the man’s
face as her heart yearned over the tragedy that had struck his
small family.
“Ya took it hard too, uncle, loosin’
both ya boy and wife in the same year. She ever contact you, let
you know where she is or iffen she’s alive?”
“Don’t hear from neither of them,
‘cept the boy, several years ago he wrote, but heard nothin’
from my wife since she left in search of him.” He stroked
his beard again, as he glanced around at the dark hills, concern
written large on his face.
Changing the subject, for the absence of
his son and wife really did pain Uncle Angus, even twenty years
later, he looked about their valley, at the darkening sky, the
smoke that drifted among the hills, and inquired, “s’ppose
them fires may be nearer then we think?”
Grandma looked worried in the dim light
cast by the stars and the sliver of the moon. “We’ve
had fires before, Uncle, never hurt us none,” she replied,
involuntarily twisting her handkerchief.
“Ya, I know, but they seem bigger this
year.” He paused for a moment as the silence descended about
then, as, each lost in thought, they contemplated the future.
“Seems things everywhere is bigger,”
Uncle said. “Here ‘bout them fires out West, the television
says their burnin’ out of control, can’t put ‘em
out ‘cause it ain't rained in seven months, worst drought
they've had in many a year,” the laconic Uncle Angus replied.
“Why do you s’ppose we're having
so many bad things happ’n lately,” Grandma quarried?
“They say, on the television, that
a hurricane’s huffing and puffing down south, but it won't
hurt us none.”
Grandma Baxter sat in silence for a few
minutes enjoying the cool breeze and silence of the valley before
speaking. “Uncle, I'm frightened, drought, fires, hurricanes,
terrible crimes, them wars in..., what do they call that place?”
“The middle east,” Uncle Angus
prompted.
“That’s right, the middle east.
That’s terrible what’s happenin’ in that area.
The Jews and Arabs always fightin’ and killin’ each
other, then that war between those Indians and Chinese, that’s
awful, too. So much killin’ and fightin’. Uncle, when
will it ever stop?”
“People seem to be angry all the time,
killin’, fightin’, hurtin’ each other, terrible,”
Uncle Angus commented. “Don’t know, Grandma, but I think,”
he paused, looking speculatively at the crest of a distant mountain,
then, after a moment, he resumed. “I think things ain’t
gonna get no better ‘till Christ comes and takes us to heaven
with Him.”
Grandma Baxter’s face lighted up in
anticipation. “Can’t wait, Uncle, this old lady ain’t
getting any younger, sure do wanna go home.” She looked wistfully
at the heavens, which were jet black, allowing the stars to shine
the brighter. “O Jesus,” she breathed, “please
come quickly like you promised, this old Lady wants to go home,
right soon.”
“Hope that feller gets home all right,”
Uncle finally broke the silence. “He ain’t safe on these
here roads, them big city fellers don’t know their way around
these mountains.”
“I prayed for him, asked the good Lord
to bring him back to his lovely wife safe and sound.”
“Grandma,” Uncle Angus commented
with a nonchalance that didn’t fool her, “think I'll
jist have a look over that hill, yonder, jist in case the fire’s
closer then I think.”
“Do you really think there’s danger,
Uncle.”
“Don’t know, why don’t you
git some things together, jist in case and put ‘em in that
little box you uses when ye travel.”
Grandma looked worried. As Uncle Angus leisurely
walked toward the hill bordering the south side of her property,
Grandma sat for a moment, praying for George and Billy, for Uncle
Angus, and for herself.
“Things are really gittin’ troublesome,”
she mused, as she went inside to ponder what she should take of
Uncle’s fears were confirmed.
The memories flooded back upon her, memories
of a girlhood spent in this very house. Pleasant years, those
far away times, she thought, as she gathered a few things together
on her bed, then fetched a small suitcase.
Looking about her, she was vaguely concerned,
she longed for her Lord to return, but could she leave all her
precious belongings, the clocks that she had so lovingly gathered
over the years, her favorite plants, the china tea set her mother
had given her when she married Grandpa Baxter nearly 55 years
ago, and the photograph albums?
She lovingly caressed a favorite clock that
stood on her dresser as a slight breeze feathered the lacy curtains
at the window. She gently touched the ivory hands of the clock,
feeling the slight vibration of the spring mechanism that unerringly
moved the hands over its polished wooden face as they neared the
moment when two charming Swiss children would dart from their
house to announce the hour with bows and curtsies.
She sighed as she finished packing the few
personal belongings in the small travel stained, brown, leather
suitcase, fastening its straps and buckles, then sat upon the
bed, to examine her thoughts. Muggins leaped into her lap, desiring
her attention. She wrapped her arms around his large body, feeling
the soft fur, listening to the deep throated purr while he licked
her hand with his rough tongue. She know God wouldn’t let
her take all these things to heaven when He came to fetch her
and Uncle, but, O how she hated to part with them. Could she do
it, could she leave the home of her youth and the accumulated
life time of memories, and all of her earthly possession?.
Her Lord seemed to be speaking to her, “He
that loveth father or mother more then me is not worthy of me:”
he breathed into her ear with such tenderness and love that this
mild rebuke did not anger or cause resentment. “And he that
loveth son or daughter more then me is not worthy of me. And he
that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me is not worthy
of me. He that findeth his life shall loose it: and he that looseth
his life, for my sake shall find it.”
She was momentarily ashamed of herself.
This most mild of rebukes from her Lord, whom she loved intensely,
reminded her that she must love Him more then her house, the clocks,
the china, or even her own life or she would not be worthy of
spending an eternity with Him. Clasping her hands in her usual
mode of prayer, she confessed her sin and experienced, once again,
the peace that passeth all understanding overflow her heart. She
was at peace with her Lord.
As she sat in quiet contemplation of many
loving years she had spent in His service, quietly ministering
to the needs and happiness of others in her tiny community, an
old song, she had learned in her girlhood, flooded her mind. “Jesus
loves me,” she involuntarily sang, “this I know, for
the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong, we are weak
but he is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me: Yes, Jesus loves me: Yes,
Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so.”
For an hour, she busied herself about the
house, while Muggins contentedly lay on the bed, humming the old
familiar songs of Jesus, not desiring to retire at her usual hour
until Uncle returned with his report and it was safe to do so.
Turning on the faucet to wash the few supper dishes, she watched
in dismay as a brown trickle of warm water gurgled out of the
faucet to puddle at the bottom of her dishpan.
“I can’t stay here much longer,”
she whispered to her Lord, “if this here water doesn’t
flow any faster or cleaner.”
Leaving the dishes for morning, she went
out back to make sure the chickens were safe in the hen house
and had plenty of water, which they did. She would have to sell
them pretty soon if this drought gets any worse. Not enough water
for them or her, nor enough for the few cows that she hadn’t
sold yet. Not enough water!
She stared at the familiar hills, the hills
of her girlhood, the enduring hills that lent an element of stability
in an otherwise turbulent world. Mournfully, she watched, as a
freshening wind stirred the dried leaves of her favorite oak,
a tree she had planted nearly seventy years earlier, a tree she
had grown up with, had played in its branches, had swung from
its lower boughs, had romanced under its shade, had cradled her
children beneath its protective branches, and frolicked among
its fallen leaves in the fall with her toddlers, as they began
to explore their expanding world.
Stately and tall, its branches nearly covering
the entire yard, it seemed to mirror her life of contentment among
the familiar hills and valleys.
Returning to the house, she head the crunch
of gravel, the screech of breaks and Uncle’s shrill voice
in the darkness. “What’da find out,” she began
as he burst in the front door.
“Grandam, come quickly, the fire’s
upon us, its jist down the holler a ways, come quickly!”
Her heart pounding in fear and anxiety,
glancing out the front window, she could see the orange glow of
advancing flames, marching steadily in their direction.
“The chickens,” she protested,
“and the cows, Uncle, let them loose so’s they can escape,
please, Uncle,” she pleaded with desperation in her voice,
“I’ll get my box and meet you in the truck.”
Uncle Angus didn’t protest, not with
this woman, at any rate, besides it was faster to comply with
her wishes then to argue with her. As he ran around the house
to release the chickens, Grandma grabbed her suitcase with one
hand while snatching up Muggins and tucking him under her other
arm. The chickens and cows were already terrified by the smell
of fire and smoke and needed no urging to scatter. Hurrying around
the house, Angus hoped they would survive, but doubted it. Already
the fires were burring on both sides of the driveway, flickering
along the wood fence bordering the remains of her once lovely
flower beds, and advancing on the house, as Uncle jumped into
the truck and, using the back road, headed toward his own home.
The hills were on fire, smoke curled over
the road, partially obscuring its familiarity, but Uncle know
the area so well, he had often said he could drive this road in
his sleep, and tonight he would prove it.
The sound was terrible, Grandma thought,
clutching her precious suitcase on her lap, and comforting Muggins
who looked into her eyes for reassurance, terror written upon
his face while praying for divine protection upon the two fugitives.
The winds swirled around them, showering the truck with flaming
bits of leaves as they neared his house with the relative safety
of the storm cellar. Here, they might find shelter from the fire.
Several hundred yards separated them from
the fire and safety, as the truck rounded the last corner. Uncle’s
house was already burning, and the barns were fully engulfed,
but he cared nothing for them, having thoughts only for the storm
cellar that yawned before them, now only a hundred yards away.
Yellow orange light blinded them in every
direction they looked, smoke filled their eyes and choked their
throats. The heat was searing their skin, Is this what hell is
like, Grandma thought. O, Lord be merciful to us, your children.
