Homecoming and Storytelling October 2006

This adventure began, as so many others have, with an extended car trip in the fall of 2006. I was 72 and Frances was 66. Fran had been discussing this trip with her sister, Lucille, for months. Eventually, the sisters had an agenda that satisfied both families. We would be seeing some of the most beautiful mountain country in the southeast.

The plan was in three parts. Part one: Fran and I, coming from Houston, would meet Tom and Lucille Sofge, coming from Jacksonville, Florida, in Meridian, Mississippi. The next day, Sunday, October 1, 2006, we would attend Homecoming at Bethel United Methodist Church in Cyril, Alabama.

Part Two: On Monday, October 2, we would caravan from Meridian to Helen, Georgia, and then to Maggie Valley in North Carolina. Part three: Wednesday afternoon, Fran and I would drive to Jonesborough, Tennessee, for the 34th National Storytelling Festival. Lucille and Tom were to spend some time at Camp Junaluska, a Methodist Retreat in North Carolina, before returning to Jacksonville.

We departed Houston Friday afternoon, September 29, 2006, about 1:00 P.M. and arrived in Shreveport, Louisiana that evening about 5:30 P.M. The next day, we crossed Louisiana into Mississippi, stopping at the Comfort Inn in Meridian.

Lois and Ray Bishop, and Lucille and Tom Sofge (they had arrived earlier) met us and we visited in the lobby. (Lois, Frances, and Lucille are first cousins on their mother's side.) Lois entertained us with non-stop, hilarious tales. She is a natural comic, filled with curiosity and is a tart observer of people.

Ray told me that he is recovering from his second heart attack. He said that he felt OK but tires easily. We talked about Monk and Norma Jean Beddingfield. He recalled the many pleasurable happenings the couples had shared over the years. Ray said that he missed Norma Jean. Now, he's worried about Monk's health and prayed that it would improve.

Ray spoke quietly, his voice filled with yearning. I sensed his sadness at losing what had been and would be no more. Besides listening with empathy, I was unable to offer any words of consolation. (I did tell Ray that we would stop in Chattanooga on our way home and visit Monk who is recovering at the home of his son, Keith, and daughter-in-law, Kathy.)

Later, Lucille, Frances, Tom and I called on Aunt Annie Laura and her daughter, Patricia. We greeted and met: Patricia's son's (Daren) ex-wife, the ex-wife's mother and their 13-year old son, Bo. Soon they left and Daren's present wife arrived. We passed an enjoyable hour talking about this and that.

Surely, there must be conflicted emotions in blended families. So, I was pleased and surprised at how tender and caring Daren's ex and current wives were to his mother and grandmother. It showed in the pleasure both derived from the daughters-in-law's visits.

After saying our goodbyes, we went to Walmart. We ordered food—fried chicken, cold slaw, and potato salad—for our picnic lunch to be picked up the next morning, Sunday. With logistics organized for Homecoming, we retired for the night.

Sunday morning, we drove to Cyril, about thirty miles southeast of Meridian. The contrast between now and the last Homecoming we attended in the early nineteen eighties was noticeable. Then, the church was surrounded by a patchwork of neat cultivated fields. (This is the Cyril that Fran loved as a child and wrote about in many of her poems.) Now, the fields lay fallow, abandoned to nature.

My first impression of the old church (built in 1873) was how spic and span it appeared. The building had a new metal roof and a fresh coat of dazzling white paint. The interior was rendered in soft beige. The 1903 model pump organ had been restored and electrified. The old straight-back, wooden benches were as hard and unforgiving as they must have been when first put together over 133 years ago.

I noticed that the grounds and the adjoining cemetery were well groomed. Considering that the church has only four active members, I was astonished. Who would have thought that a tiny church hidden away in the back woods of west Alabama would receive such devoted care from so few.

While waiting for the services to begin at 10:00 A.M., I wandered about the cemetery where I met and talked to young Mr. Fuller. He showed me the graves of his family and pointed to the headstone of the only Confederate veteran there. He spoke with pride about his heritage and attachment to the land.

Rev. Tim Craddock conducted the services. A guest preacher, Brother Ed Tatum, delivered the Homecoming message. I cannot recall a word he said.

Mrs. Wilma Mazingo sang a medley of songs. The congregation sang: "This is My Father's World," "The Church in the Wildwood," "Amazing Grace," and "I Surrender All."

The melodies, cadence, and harmony reawakened tender thoughts of childhood worship services. Nothing touches me more deeply than a familiar song of worship sung in unison. They remind us: what to care about, when and where to turn in despair, and who to praise and why. I believe that life is about gratitude, forgiveness, blessings, grace, and love—the bedrock of all relationships.

After the service, we gathered outside under the canning shed for a country-style picnic. Lamar Bailey, his son Phil, and Phil's daughter, Haley, represented the Meridian branch of the Ousley family. Haley and a friend enjoyed themselves playing and sampling different tidbits. Haley seems a happy, joyful child.

Lamar told us that he had to give up his volunteer efforts of maintaining the Church grounds. At 84, he is no longer able to do it.

Phil and I talked about his new job as a lab technician at Rush Hospital. He said that he liked the work and his flexible hours.

We shared food while recalling times past and departed family and friends. The mood was upbeat and yet restrained. I missed Norma Jean's introducing us to everyone.

Lucille reminisced with J.C. and Oscar Goodman (brothers). They were schoolmates who, in the early 1930s, had attended the one-room schoolhouse located next to the church. The schoolhouse is gone but not forgotten. They laughed about pranks played on each other and the teacher, Ms. Annie Pearl Long.

J.C. told about the time Ms. Long admonished his seven-year-old brother, Oscar, for wearing faded and patched overalls. Oscar ran home and told his mother.

Angry, Mrs. Goodman returned to school and "got into it" with Ms. Long. (By "getting into it," I supposed they meant that the women exchanged strong words.) If that were to happen today, the teacher would be sued for publicly humiliating a child, and the parent counter-sued for verbal assault. In some respects, the old ways of face-to-face, direct action to right a wrong seem more satisfying.

After the reunion, we stopped by Lois and Ray's home. We renewed our earlier conversations; we had lots of catching up to do. Ray showed me his garden and woodworking shop. We talked about the ingratitude of friends and family who use his equipment and never bother to thank him or even replace what they've broken. Ray is one of those rare men without a smidgeon of guile or pretense. Unlike some, he uses words to communicate and not to mask or misdirect.

The next day, Fran and I in our Volvo and Tom and Lucille in their Buick departed for Helen, Georgia—390 road miles to the east/northeast.

I left Meridian in a dark mood, feeling empty, used-up, and full of days. I was marooned in the past. Meridian has become another Birmingham for me. Both places trigger powerful memories of departed loved ones who made homecomings joyful. I want to relive those happy times.

I missed Evelyn's (Ousley Bailey) wry humor and gentle wisdom and the good days Lamar and I had tramping about his woods, deer and turkey hunting. Calming, sweet Merle (Ousley Shepherd) with her chatty news and husband, Joe, with his entertaining tales of old Alabama are gone. Spunky, vivacious Anne (Ousley Hoadley) is no longer here to challenge us.

I'll never forget Norma Jean (Ousley Beddingfield) who reminded me so much of my own take-charge, dear mother. I especially remember that wonderful camping trip our families took in the summer of 1970 to Canada. What adventures we shared.

At Cades Cove in the Great Smokies late one afternoon, we listened to an outdoor theater performance by Ms. Ella V. Costner. She read from her book, Lamp in the Cabin. (Thirty-six years later, I still have the slim, paperback volume.)

Until, without warning, it began to rain. Monk, Norma Jean, Keith, Dale, and Craig in one car and Fran, Dave, Rod, and I in another raced back to our tents. The woods grew dark and threatening as the rains fell.

In our tents, we dried off, changed clothes, ate some snacks, and snuggled into sleeping bags. With Rod (7 yrs.) and Dave (4 yrs.) laughing, and safe between us, Fran and I drifted off to sleep. I remember how blessed I felt that stormy night.

Each of the seven Ousley girls reminded me of a diamond flashing its own distinct light. When together laughing and talking all at once, they radiated a glittering and ever-changing collage. Although having different personalities, the sisters shared a common bond in their loving, kind and true natures. And the world seemed a happier place when they were all there.

Today, the only remaining sisters are Lucille (Ousley Sofge), my Frances (Ousley Johnson), and Sharon (Ousley Kling). I'm sad for the husbands, children, and grandchildren who have lost their Ousley girl.

Elsie and Arthur Ousley deserve our heartfelt thanks for the seven women they raised and gave into our care. Their influence will be felt for generations.

As the miles slipped by, Fran's soft and gentle voice pulled me back from the doldrums. We talked about our destination for the night, Helen, located in the mountains of Northeast Georgia. We arrived late in the day and by unanimous consent dined on substantial German food at the Hofbrau Riverfront Restaurant.

At dinner, Lucille said, "When David and Helen were small they loved camping trips to the mountains. They especially liked visiting in the vicinity of Helen, Georgia. Tom and I have many fond memories of those days."

Then, Lucille told us that Helen is a replica of a Bavarian alpine village. Later, in a brochure, I read: "In 1954, a group of local businessmen gathered to figure out how to capture some of the busy north/south road traffic. They hit upon the concept of creating an alpine village and the rest is history. Today, Helen is the third—after Atlanta and Savannah—most visited site in Georgia."

We enjoyed a pleasant Tuesday morning wandering in and out of Hansel and Gretel shops filled with European items. Helen with its gingerbread buildings and cobblestone sidewalks is everything Lucille promised and then some. It is clean, neat and orderly, just as one might imagine a true Alpine village to be. It's a nice destination. I'm glad we got to experience it.

We departed Helen about 11:00 a.m. bound for the Dillard House in Rabun County for lunch. The Dillard House is famous for genuine Southern cooking—some of the most honest cooking in the world. By honest, the Dillard House means the food is earthy, fresh and their seasoning doesn't mask the true taste of the foods. Their brochures claim that hungry mountain people have been coming to this all-you-can-eat establishment for over eighty years.

The Dillard House sits on a knoll in a glen of the Little Tennessee River Valley nestled within the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains. The scenery from the porch in all directions is pastoral and tranquil.

Entering the dining room, I noticed polished wooden floors leading to a large, eight-foot, rock fireplace on one end with an adjoining wall of windows framing mountain views. The dining room, filled with neatly set tables, invites with comforting, wood-fire scents and pulls one in with enticing, cooking aromas. Those delicious, coming-home smells could drive anyone over the edge.

Our hostess seated us at a large, four-place, dining table and vanished. Soon two waitresses appeared and placed before us large platters of food: green beans, fresh corn on the cob, fried okra, baked squash, cabbage, broccoli, fried green tomatoes, Vidalia onions, fried chicken, country ham, pork chops, meat loaf, biscuits, rolls. Never have I seen such a feast. Triple our number couldn't have consumed what was set before us.

When we were absolutely stuffed, out came: peach or blackberry cobbler with ice cream topping. Believe me, I'm not making this up. The ensemble of foods was a tour de force of gourmet cooking. I've never seen the like anywhere for quality, tastiness and quantity. The price per person was $18.95 and worth every penny.

I longed for a nap, but we had seen a roadside sign for the Foxfire museum on the way to the Dillard House. We decided to check it out. We found the sign pointing off to a gravel road.

We drove slowly up the narrow, slippery road at a steep angle (30°+) with frequent, tight switchbacks. Lucille and Tom followed behind. After about ½ mile, we turned into the museum parking lot. The museum was a large, ramshackle log cabin. (On the porch, one wouldn't have been surprised to see a scruffy, barefoot hillbilly in bib overalls and no shirt sipping from a jug of corn liquor with a hound dog sleeping at his feet.)

What is Foxfire? It is a non-profit, educational and literary organization based in Rabun County, Georgia devoted to the preservation of Appalachian culture. Foxfire began as a magazine in 1966 in an attempt to engage high school English students and increase their interest in learning.

A teacher equipped four students with small tape recorders and sent them out to interview mountain folks as sources for their Foxfire magazine articles. By 1972, enough material had been collected to publish an anthology of student-authored articles in the first Foxfire Book.

Since then, there have been 11 more anthologies added to the first book. And royalties from the magazines and books have been used to purchase property for preserving and honoring Appalachian culture. To date, over twenty log structures have been relocated to or built on Museum property.

Our guide talked about how desperately poor folks survived their mountain isolation with nothing except what they made or raised. With no cash crops to speak of, they suffered poverty and privation well into the twentieth century. However, they were tough, resourceful and imaginative folks of Scottish descent and they found ways to overcome their limited means.

They made do with what they had. They believed in: Wear it out. Use it up. Make it do or do without. Not a bad philosophy for any age.

I came away from Foxfire amazed at what can be accomplished by kids, operating on a shoestring budget.

We drove on to Maggie Valley in North Carolina, a short distance away, and checked in a Best Western Motel. Relaxing before dinner, I talked with a group of bikers who were touring the mountains. (Admiring their motorcycles is a sure way to get them talking.)

Answering my questions about traveling by motorcycle, one said, "Traveling on my bike is fun provided that: it isn't raining or too cold or too hot, and I don't have a mechanical problem or ride more than 400 miles in twelve hours. It's especially good when I don't have an encounter with a blind motorist talking on their cell phone. If you discount all those provisions, motorcycling is the way to go."

Wednesday morning, (10.04.06), we drove to nearby Waynesville, North Carolina, an old (1930's era) traditional town of wide sidewalks, checkerboard streets, nose-in angle parking and red brick buildings. Sprawling malls seem to have by-passed Waynesville. The population is about 6800. I liked browsing through the many small stores and speaking with helpful sales people.

After a lunch of soup and sandwiches, it was time to say goodbye to Tom and Lucille. They left to visit Camp Junalaska. My thoughts and prayers went with them.

We drove to Asheville and then took US 26 North over the Blue Ridge Mountains separating North Carolina and Tennessee, continuing on to Jonesborough for Storytelling.

On the road, I thought about the fun-filled times we had enjoyed over the years with Lucille and Tom. They are wonderful traveling companions—eager to explore, quick to compromise, and not put out by minor inconveniences, always pleasant and patient. They manage unexpected happenings with grace and humor. Moreover, they seem to like the same things we do. What more could one ask for when visiting or on a journey?

Our trip to Jonesborough was about 87 miles of winding mountain roads, giving a good view of the highest peak (Mt. Mitchell, 6684 ft.) in the entire Appalachian chain extending from Newfoundland to central Alabama. The Appalachians go by many names along their length, including the White Mountains, the Green Mountains, the Catskills, and more.

US Highway 26 winds up, over, and down, a divided, four-lane highway passing close to, but at a lower elevation, Mount Mitchell. These are not the sharp, vertical, snow-covered cliffs of the European Alps. These mountains are old, worn-down, rounded, and clothed in friendly green and brown leaves.

Leaving the turnout, we started down. The road was deserted, the temperature a moderate 60 degrees. The sun shone brightly in the clear sky, illuminating the spectacular scenery. It felt like a setting for an Alfred Hitchcock thriller, with suspense building around every curve. Can you imagine getting attacked by giant mutant rabbits on a lonely mountain road far from civilization?

We had driven about 50 miles without seeing another vehicle, person, or structure of any kind. This was a striking contrast to the congested interstates we were used to; here, there was nothing but empty road. Fran began to get apprehensive. In the distance, we saw another car inching up the mountain towards us. Relief! We are not in the Twilight Zone.

We checked into our motel in Greenville (20 miles south of Jonesborough) Wednesday evening. Having a day to ourselves before our friends arrived from Houston, we drove to Jonesborough on Thursday morning, October 5th. I wanted to get a better idea of what we were getting into. We asked lots of questions at the information booth, purchased tickets for the three-day series of events, and scouted for parking places, restaurants, etc.

We learned that storytelling is a tradition in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. In the old days when folks came to town, they would use their wagons as a makeshift stage. They entertained each other by telling humorous and tragic tales filled with local folklore and practical advice.

Today, this practice is honored in October by a national festival held in Jonesborough (population about 4,000). Over 35,000 were expected to attend the three-day event.

Jonesborough was selected to host this festival because it is the oldest city (established 1777) in Tennessee in the first county named for General George Washington. Also, another little-known fact is that the first abolitionist newspaper in the U.S. was published here. How could this be?

Being of Scottish ancestry, most locals hated the idea of slavery. (Before coming to America, the Scots had been mistreated by their English overlords for generations.) Indeed, many went north in 1860 to fight for the Union against the slave-holding, aristocratic South; and this has led to lasting resentments in Tennessee.

Enough history, let's turn to today. How does a small town manage logistics for such a massive influx? Community leaders do a thorough job of planning and organizing. They borrow police and other support and medical personnel from surrounding communities.

Where do people stay? They lodge in campers or towns as much as fifty miles away. Where do people eat? Food is available in food tents and temporary take-away stands. Where do they potty? Voiding waste takes place in port-a-potties (dozens of them) strategically located near the tents and around town.

Having wandered about the small town of Jonesborough for most of Thursday, we felt relaxed and a part of the community. We returned to our motel in Greenville and awaited the arrival of our friends; some were coming by car and some were flying in.

We would attend Storytelling with: Bill and Barbara Owen, Bill's sister, Sandy Colby, and her daughter, Laura Knight. Also coming were Barbara's daughter, Janet Gregg, and her husband, Steve, from Raleigh, NC. Steve grew up in the area and had introduced Bill and Barbara to Storytelling some years ago. Carol and Barbara McGuire and Weldon and Carolyn Rogers from Houston completed our group.

We assembled Thursday evening. We discussed how we would manage for the events on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Bill pointed out that Jonesborough would block off (to automotive traffic) the town center of about four city blocks bounded on the north by Woodrow Avenue and on the south by College Street.

The Courthouse Tent, the Creekside Tent, and the 2nd Avenue Tent were arranged about a block apart along Woodrow Avenue. The College St. Tent and the small Library Tent were near each other on College St., two blocks south of the other tents.

Bill suggested that we select one of the large tents (capacity about 2,000 seats), arrive early on Friday morning to get good seats near the front, and stay there all day. Since the storytellers rotate through all five tents, we would hear most, if we stayed put. We followed this plan and it worked well.

Bill cautioned that we would have to take turns with our spouse when taking a break for lunch, dinner, or whatever. The rule at Storytelling is that one person can hold only one seat and not a block of seats. If someone doesn't save your seat and you take a break returning later, you'll be lucky to find a seat in back (50 yards from the stage) or find standing room on the perimeter.

We decided on the 2nd Avenue Tent. Parking would be within easy walking distance if we arrived by 8:30 AM.

You, the reader, must want me to get to the point, enough of the build-up. I'll give you my impressions of the Festival.

I can't wait to go again. That says it all. I had forgotten how powerful, rich and moving a simple story could be when told by a master. The stories I heard resonate because they reawakened memories of similar happenings in my life.

Recapping Friday went something like this. We arrived early, about an hour and a half before the first performance at 10:00 AM, and found seats—narrow, hard, folding metal chairs—about five rows from the stage. Initially, it was chilly in the mid-fifties (°F). As the tent filled to capacity (2,000+) around 9:30 AM, it became warm and then stuffy. The organizers raised the sides of the tent, letting in welcomed, fresh air. Those not having seats stood outside around the tent's perimeter.

The first storyteller, Diane Ferlatte, an African-American from Louisiana, began a story from Africa. It was a fascinating tale about tribal life and heeding your elders' advice. Ms. Ferlatte told it well. Her story took about 40 minutes. There was a 20-minute break before the next storyteller would begin at 11:00 AM.

Fran saved my seat while I waited in line at one of the eighteen portable toilets lined up military-style just outside our tent. Since the facilities were unisex, I chose a line having the fewest women.

A man standing just ahead said, "I see you don't like to wait behind the ladies either."

"No, gals take too long. Aren't you glad there are no mirrors inside those plastic outhouses, otherwise our wait would be much longer," I said. He chuckled.

A lady standing in the adjacent line less than three feet away overheard our conversation. Glaring at me, she said, "I'm going to time you and see how long you take."

"That's OK by me."

My turn came. The woman who threatened to time me was still two people back, thus proving my point.

As I exited the portable toilet, she announced in a loud voice, "You took one minute and seventeen seconds."

I thought a moment and said, "When you're old, cold, and forgetful, you have trouble finding things."

She frowned, smiled slowly, and then laughed, as did several of the other women.

I worked my way through the crowds back inside and assumed the duty of minding seats while Fran took a break. She returned with bottled water and some snacks.

At 11:00 A.M., the next storyteller took his place on the stage and applause broke out. Mr. Donald Davis was born and raised in Western North Carolina. He graduated from Davidson College and Duke Divinity School and retired after 24 years as a Methodist minister. Today, Mr. Davis says, "Storytelling is not what I do for a living...it is how I do all that I do while I am living."

Mr. Davis turned a simple family story about his father's desire for a second car into high comedy. The story line was how he, as a teenager, had destroyed the family's old car by overstressing it at high speeds—the engine threw a rod.

Wanting a better work car but unable to convince his wife, the father and son engineered a plot to fool the mother into thinking she did it. The father had the car towed home and placed where it usually sat, as if nothing was wrong. That evening the father made up a story that he needed the "nice" family car the next day to take a client to lunch. The wife agreed that she would drive the work car to her school teaching job.

In the morning when the mother attempted to start the car, it made an awful, banging racket but wouldn't start. Not being able to reach her husband who had left earlier, she telephoned a neighbor asking for help.

The neighbor got in the car and pressed the starter; the engine made a loud slapping and grinding noise but wouldn't start. He raised the hood. Seeing a connecting rod sticking out of the engine and a puddle of oil on the ground, he assumed that it happened with her attempting to start it. The neighbor took her to work.

At home that evening, she confessed that somehow she had broken the work car. She suggested they buy another one. Husband and son comforted her, but were secretly pleased that their deception worked as planned. (It was a harmless ruse only possible between people who love each other; and it entered into the family's folklore to be savored with each new telling.)

Mr. Davis paused at exactly the right moments for dramatic effect; and the way he portrayed the mother's confused attempt to hide her imagined fault was fall-down funny. Mr. Davis received a standing "O".

Carmen Deedy, another crowd favorite followed. She touched on some of the hilarious aspects of growing up with Cuban parents in Decatur, Georgia in the nineteen Carmen is an energetic, in-your-face, tell-it-like-it-is, dramatic Latina. She performed well.

Her story was about the courting habits of Cuban cockroaches and how Cuban grandmothers coach their granddaughters in using the old, spilled-coffee trick to test potential suitors. (The trick was to inadvertently, on purpose, spill coffee on the suitor's pants or shoes. How he reacted before marriage would be a good indication of his actions after the marriage.) And how Cuban boys also have Cuban grandmothers who teach them how to turn the tables and test the girls during courtship. She finished her story to strong applause.

Finally, there was elderly Kathryn Windham and her stories of life in Selma, Alabama, told in a rich, thick, southern drawl that stirred my soul.

As these and other storytellers spun their magic, all 2,000 plus people in the 2nd Avenue Tent were hushed, on the edge of their seats not wanting to miss a word. There were well-behaved small children and teenagers sprinkled throughout the audience. I've seldom seen such attentive youngsters. They were as spellbound as the adults.

Throughout Friday and Saturday, I had dozens of opportunities to speak with other attendees. Without exception, I found them to be decent, caring folks interested in their families and the art of storytelling. I was surprised to learn that many were educators, ministers, and social workers or involved in the health care professions.

I especially noticed how polite and mannerly everyone was, and how they cared for the elderly and those in wheelchairs, like our friend Carol, who has Parkinson's. Bill, Weldon and Barbara were able to position Carol down front at the foot of the stage.

Friday and Saturday evenings our group ate at an African/American Baptist Church not far from the 2nd Avenue Tent. The food was inexpensive, plentiful, tasty and served in pleasant surroundings by happy people.

Although the days were long and somewhat tiring, the entertainment was superb. We encountered only welcoming, kindly and friendly people wherever we went. There seemed to be a universal feeling of good will. Come to think about it, Storytelling reminded me of a church retreat.

At a church retreat, we're seeking closeness through community worship. At Storytelling and in the Bible, we discover our humanity through stories about common the stories celebrating life's messiness, its uncertainty and our universal fear when we venture into the unknown, or so it seems to me.

As we were leaving Sunday morning for Chattanooga, we told our friends that we had a marvelous time and how much we enjoyed their company. We left saying, "Let's do it again next year."

Our map showed that we were about 150 miles east (3 hours driving time) of Keith's home near Chattanooga. Keith had given Frances good directions. We found his mountaintop home easily and what a beautiful home—warm, comfortable and inviting—it is.

When we arrived about noon, Kathy, Keith and Monk greeted us with big smiles. We toured their house, Kathy fixed lunch and we were brought up to speed on the Beddingfield branch of the Ousley family.

Monk, who is battling cancer, had fallen at home in Meridian and injured his neck requiring a neck brace. His family thought that it would be best if he stayed with Keith and Kathy until his neck healed and he grew stronger. As a teaching nurse, Kathy had lined up the best doctors in the area.

During lunch, we saw pictures of daughter, April's, recent wedding and heard all about son, Matthew's, job. Monk, Frances and I reminisced about old times we had shared and talked briefly about his health. (Monk is a quiet, private person who seldom complains and is not given to talking about himself.)

Kathy is a gracious and loving daughter-in-law and Keith is a devoted son. They seem very happy about their life and their grown children. We left knowing that Monk was being and would be well cared for.

We stopped for the night in Meridian. Next morning, we left early and 540 miles later arrived home in Spring about 6:00 P.M.

We had a marvelous trip, got to experience different happenings and made new friends. All went well and there was not a single unpleasant incident. (Well, I must confess that I became impatient a few times but Fran said she would have thought something was wrong if I hadn't.)

Oh, I almost forgot. For those interested in such things, we traveled 2,447 miles and consumed 93.25 gallons of gasoline for an average of 26.24 MPG. The total cost was $218.99, and the average cost per gallon was $2.35. Not bad for an eight-year-old Volvo with 110,000 miles on the odometer.