Alabama Walking

With a cup of coffee under belt and a faint light on the eastern sky, my Dad and I would begin our walks in Uriah, Alabama. My visits home are always marked with this occasion.
In the winter, we would be bundled against the cold and the pace a little quicker. In summer, with a slower pace and bug spray smeared on all exposed skin between our necks and ankles, we would soon be solving the problems of the world.
Parking in front of the Old Blacksher house and heading south, our trek would begin with a silence as we woke up to the day. Going past the small part of town which was as close to urbanized as the town would come, our strides would fall in cadence with each other and by the time we have passed the baseball field and high school, our conversations would begin. We would start to lament about politicians, wondering “how in Sam Hill educated people could make the decisions they do” regarding our national policies. His stout Republican ideals and my more liberal views would always take us to opposing opinions and another side of an issue to be considered and discussed.
In short time our steps would be crunching on the gravel road running behind the Garrett property. It is a ten acre parcel of land with a huge white antebellum home sitting right in the middle. It is a beautiful old house that although having long since lost its luster, still clings proudly to the dignity it once had. On most summer mornings, Ben House would be picking beans or peas, cutting okra or gathering tomatoes in his roadside garden all the while swatting gnats and sweating from the viscous humidity. His work shoes would be muddy and pants wet from the knees down from the early dew coating everything this time of year.
By the time we reach Highway 21, the sky has opened to the day and life is stirring at small town speed. Taking a break in front of the Baptist Church, passers by on their way to work and drivers of logger trucks loaded with paper wood would throw up a hand in greeting. We’d continue across town, with Dad choosing the way he preferred depending on how well he felt that morning. Some folks would be sitting on porches with coffees in hand and sleepy grandbabies in welcoming laps as we strode through town.

“Mornin’, hi’ ya’ll doin’?”
”Doin’ awright. You?”
“Yep – good as can be expected. Goin’ to Mobile on Wednesday for a check up”.
“Let us know if you need anything”.
“Awrigh, see ya later, then”.

These short, common exchanges between folks you just spoke to yesterday are a part of how it’s done there. The communications of a small town don’t need a lot of rhetoric to get the message across that one is thought of, cared about, and missed if out of pocket too long.

Passing the ancient magnolia tree in the yard of Ms. Mary I might ask, “How is Miss Mary?”

Dad might reply, “She’s doing good. She decided to stop driving and seems to be slowing down a bit, but she’s doing good. Me and your Mama went to her 93rd birthday party a week or so back over at the Methodist Church. A lot of her family was there, Laura asked about you”.

Soon we have completed the circle, we have passed the water tower with the town’s name painted on its tank, we have seen flowers and weed brambles along the road, crops growing and yards tended to. There was Hootie’s Barber Shop, not yet open, but with the first early customer waiting patiently in his truck reading The Monroe Journal. School busses have begun pulling into the local school to empty its contents of children who begin running and greeting playmates before classes begin. The cotton gin, in the fall, would be filling the air with its dust and that wonderful, dry smell of cotton so special to the area. By the time we have almost completed our trip, I have caught up on who’s living in Miss Jones old house and who’s building the big new place out by the Nipper’s pecan orchard. Sandra Kilpatrick has moved back from Georgia and is running the café now and the feed mill is closing down if Mr. Reed doesn’t get out of the hospital soon - he’s been in bad shape. The people who have died, divorced and moved on have been discussed. Who has a new baby always brings a smile and a surprise to my spirit.

By the time we return home, another cup of coffee and a simple breakfast of biscuits and Conecuh Sausage hit the spot perfectly. It’s time to relax a little. Dad grabs a morning nap in his recliner while I talk to Mom up in the kitchen. I will spend some time with her later in the day, allowing her to decide where she might like to go, or what she might like to do. I feel better having heard of folks I’ve known all my life and I begin to feel the familiar connection to where my life began and am grateful that my life is good.