Chapter 1 April, 1927
Raindrops pounded our tin roof like a million tiny hammers, hitting faster and faster until the sound blended into a steady roar. The nine of us, Papa, Mama, my three brothers, three sisters and me, listened silently while we ate our breakfast. The familiar odors of hot grease and boiled coffee hung thick in the kitchen in spite of trails of wind that pushed through hundreds of little cracks around windows, under doors and in the walls. The drafts fluttered the yellow flames of our kerosene lamps and took away what little warmth there was. At six thirty in the morning it was dark as night outside. After several minutes, the racket on the roof let up and Papa said, “Since the bayou’s flooding the lower pasture, we’ll move the cows to the barn lot then go check those fences around the field by the woods, too. I ‘spect we’ll wind up putting them there.” “What about the varmints?” Joe, the youngest of my three older brothers, asked. Papa gave him a sharp look. “We’ll worry about that when we have to.” The woods around the farm were miles deep, and all kinds of animals lived in there, including bears and coyotes. We’d even seen wolves sneaking through the trees. So, if Papa would chance them killing our stock, it meant he thought we were in a terrible mess. Dumping a pan full of hot biscuits onto a platter near Papa’s elbow, Mama said, “Should we start packing, Edgar?” We all stopped eating to hear what he said. He reached for two of the biscuits, split them open, and shoveled in chunks of butter. “Nope. Not yet, anyways.” He poured molasses from the white stone pitcher over his biscuits, and added, “We’ll go to the hills if the Kane starts backing up.” Kane Bayou was the biggest bayou in our part of the state. Our house and outbuildings sat on a hill where the curve in the bayou had built the bank up several feet higher than the water. The overflow into our pastures was coming in from the places where the land sloped to the edge of the water. Mama finally sat down and helped her plate like she was going to eat, but all she did was sip her coffee. I absentmindedly shoved pieces of biscuit around in the molasses on my plate and wondered where in the hills we’d go if we did leave. Would we camp out in the woods like the men did when they went deer hunting? Mama’s voice cracked the silence. “Willie Campbell! Stop playing with your food!” Her sharp voice startled me so badly, I jumped clear off the bench. My fork clattered to the floor. Gracie, my three year-old sister, began to cry. I leaned under the table to pick up the fork, fighting my own tears. All of us were edgy from being closed up in the house for so long. Even Mama had lost her calm ways. I saw Papa reach out and touch Mama’s hand real quick-like. She nodded then said, “Here, Willie, let me have that fork.” She swapped it for her clean one which made me feel better. Papa finished breakfast before the rest of us. He pushed back his chair and walked over to the kitchen door where a lantern hung on a nail. “Surely, Mr. Campbell, you can wait until the worst of it lets up.” Mama called Papa Mr. Campbell, some of the time. Usually when she was aggravated with him. “You’re liable to catch cold out in that wind, you know.” He set the lantern on the mantelpiece and struck a match to light the wick. “There’s plenty to do, Mrs. Campbell, wind or no wind.” The old canvas jacket Papa pulled on was no more than a wind breaker, but it was all he ever wore over his flannel shirts and overalls. A skinny man, with a bony face and the sharpest pair of blue eyes I ever saw, his six feet, two inches made him look like a giant to me. In spite of being thin, Papa was one of the strongest men in the county. He could work harder and longer than anyone I knew, and he never seemed to get tired. I guess that’s why he fussed at me for being so shiftless. I did drag my feet when it came to doing my chores. I hated farm work. Papa turned to speak to my brothers. “You boys can finish your breakfast, but don’t be lollygagging around.” George, who was eighteen years old, was already reaching for his jacket. Ed, who is fifteen, and Joe, twelve, started up from their seats but at Papa’s last words, settled back to eating. The opened door let in cold air that swooshed every bit of the heat out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, Joe and Ed left, letting in another cold gust of wind. It would take our wood-burning cook stove on one side of the room and the fireplace on the other, a long time to get the room warm again. Gracie whined, “I’m freezing, Mama.” “Willie, go get your sister that quilt on my cedar chest.” I thought Gracie was big enough to get her own quilt, but I didn’t dare say anything. Mama put on her own coat to take our overnight pots to the outhouse. We didn’t make trips out there at night because you never knew what might be lying in the path, or have taken shelter in the little building. Even a raccoon was dangerous if he’s cornered. My older sisters, Liz and Maxie, cleared the table and stacked dishes on the cabinet next to the sink. Outside the window was a big water tank on a platform that Papa had built so Mama could have running water for the kitchen. With all the rain coming down, the water was pouring over the tank’s rim.
|