Mapping the Future

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the large white-washed farmhouse, a worn map of the Southern United States resting in her lap. She watched as day broke over fields of dry bark and lint, all that remained of the Alabama cotton crop planted six months ago and harvested just last week. It had been a decent crop, but not enough to convince Fila’s mother to stay and keep working the farm alone. The fields, desolate in the half light of early morning, mirrored Fila’s own mood of bleak acceptance. The land was no longer theirs, having been sold to neighbors, along with all the farm equipment. Save for the barest essentials required for this unwelcome move, the house and everything in it had been sold or given away. Nothing would remain of the family she loved, and nothing of her life in this place would be marked once they turned their faces to the west. Of the livestock, only the two family mules, Jack and Mike, were left. Now they stood hitched to a wagon, waiting patiently to pull two broken hearts to Texas.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on. 

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage the 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Fila wondered where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind? Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map. Under different circumstances, a move off the farm and into the unknown would be an adventure, a chance to explore the world beyond Girard and its smallness, its sameness. Before her father’s untimely death, she often begged to go with him to Columbus on a Saturday, just to feel the activity and vibrant air of business and barter in a real town. But “before” has become a defining period of time. Before Father’s death, before selling the farm, before seeing her home auctioned off, before saying goodbye to the boy whose hand she had held and kissed in the pecan orchard. She wondered if the great explorers of history had left their home shores with the same fear and grief she harbored, or were they elated, hopeful of what might lie ahead? And what happened to those the intrepid explorers left behind, the families, the friends? Fila knew that friendships were hard to maintain from long distances. Families drifted as far apart as the distance between them. Once on the road, or on the seas, did the foreign lands and people dim the memories of home as these explorers tasted adventure and tackled adversities? Conquering new territory was too daunting a thought in this moment. Leaving her life behind outweighed hopefulness, and the loss of hope was a weight her frail shoulders could not bear. Or so she thought. 

Turning her mind away from the present despair, Fila gave the map her full attention. With her finger, she traced the route they expected to take, starting in Girard to meet up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. Fila stared at the map, noting the breadth of Texas. Her uncle’s letters described Texas as a land of great potential, still much of it yet to be explored, with its grand prairies of grasses and cattle, rivers and vast horizons, both physical and metaphysical. Dallas, he said, was a bustling enterprise and growing every day. But Fila knew that most of the state remained frontier, unexplored perhaps, but also grappling with the loss of the Confederacy and clinging to the idea that the South could rise again. 

As she traced the route, she remembered the wagon boss estimating they would cover 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were, unwilling explorers, leaving behind the familiar, facing the unknown.

As Fila folded the map and laid it on the porch step, she saw a young man walking slowly up the path to the farmhouse, a weathered hat in his hand. Fila recognized him as the hired driver of the wagon that would soon take her into her future. As she held out her hand to him, she smiled and said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.” 

With that, Fila picked up the map from the step, nodded to the young man, and turned back to the farmhouse, her heart a little lighter knowing that, unlike the explorers of centuries before, someone, indeed, knew the way.