Bittersweet Journey

The mournful sound of the train whistle floated across the mile between the track and my ears. I loved that sound, far away and lonesome. It gave voice to the feelings keeping me awake. Bittersweet, it hinted at mysteries of the unknown. When the sun rose in the morning, I would leave the only home I'd ever known.

    I could never sleep the night before a trip. Not that I had much experience. At six going on seven, I had only taken two trips. Those were vacations. This time is different. We were moving to Texas.

Lying awake in one of the twin beds in Uncle Tuck's room at Mema's house, l had only night sounds to keep me company. My older sister, Caroline, was fast asleep in the other bed. We had to spend the night there because we loaded everything we had into a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back of our 1962 Buick Electra.

Things seemed grim here after the hosiery mill shut down a few years ago. Once, everybody worked there: Papaw and Grandaddy, Daddy, and even Mamaw. After it closed, Daddy got a job at the fire department, and Papaw became a deputy sheriff. Granddaddy and Mamaw moved to Texas.

Though I would miss my familiar life, especially Mema's house, I was excited about the possibility of moving. I could be a whole new me. My family had been here forever. Everybody in our little town knew everything about them, so they thought they knew everything about me, but they didn't.

The rooster's crow woke me up just before the screen door slammed. Mema was up. Dressed in my pajamas, I raced to the kitchen, hoping I wasn't too late to follow her to the pigpen and the henhouse. 

"I'm going to miss you, Mema."

"I'll miss you, too," she said and patted my long, red curls.

"Will you come to visit us in Texas?" I asked, but I already knew the answer. 

"I've never traveled beyond a few hours from here, and now I'm too old." Going to Texas seemed like an adventure, but knowing I would never see Mema and Papaw again made me sad.

Some of my best memories came from Mema's kitchen: the smell of biscuits baking and garden-fresh vegetables frying in her big, cast-iron skillet, the slap of the dasher in the churn when she made butter, and the sight of her broad back as she stood at the sink, as steady and timeless as the mountains.

"Come on," she said. "It's time to feed the hogs and gather the eggs."

Mema and Papaw lived on five acres just outside the city limits. They kept two hogs, destined to become country sausage, along with chickens, a cow, and a small flock of guineas to keep the hawks and snakes away.

There was a bucket outside the back door where she tossed peelings, parings, coffee grounds, leftovers from our plates, and anything else no longer fit for us to eat. I always marveled at how the hogs ate this revolting mess with such enthusiasm.

We walked along the path to the hog pen where the hogs waited by the trough. They were soon rooting away and slurping up the slop she poured into it. They were several hundred pounds of sharp hooves with great snuffling snouts. I was terrified of them.

Next, we visited the hen house. Mema gathered up the corners of her apron to create a cloth sack. Then she reached beneath the hens, who squawked and pecked at her hands as she stole their eggs. In a few minutes, we headed back up the path toward the kitchen. Mema put the eggs in a bowl and picked up a basket. We were headed to the root cellar.

They built the old house on the side of a hill, so it created a space for storing vegetables underneath it. Mema would bring up jars of soup mixture from the root cellar in the winter and spring before the fresh vegetables started coming in. It was made from a blend of corn, tomatoes, beans, and okra canned from the garden. She stored the glass jars on narrow shelves made from planks. I can still remember the earthy smell of her root cellar.

On our last morning in North Carolina, Mema filled her basket with jars for us to take with us. We didn't know what vegetables people might eat in Texas.

When we reached the yard, Daddy was behind the wheel of the Buick, turning the car and trailer around so he could pull straight out onto the road. Papaw, already dressed in his blue deputy sheriff's uniform, stood on the gravel, giving him directions. Mama watched from a safe distance.

"Go make sure your sister is getting ready," Mama told me. In the bedroom, I found Caroline lying on the bed with a pillow over her head.

"Come on," I said, "it's time for breakfast."

"Go away," came her reply.

"We're all going away. If you don't get dressed, we'll go to Texas and leave you here." With that, I grabbed the bed covers and yanked them back.

"Mama!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs.

"Yell as loud as you want," I said. "She's outside and can't hear you."

"Fine. Leave me here. I don't want to go to stupid old Texas, anyway."

I was happy about moving to a strange place. Caroline was angry about it. First, she tried begging Mama and Daddy not to do it. Defeated, she was determined not to cooperate. I didn't understand her. She just wanted to cling to Mama's apron strings. She could do that anywhere.

Mama opened the bedroom door. "Mema has a nice breakfast ready," she said. "And your daddy wants to get on the road. Time's a-wastin'," she warned us as she headed back to the kitchen.

I got to the dining room where everyone sat, dressed and ready for breakfast. Before we ate, Papaw said grace. Instead of keeping my eyes closed in prayer, I looked around the room while he thanked God for everything.

The women and children ate in silence. The men dominated the conversation as usual. If someone asked me a question, I was allowed to answer, but good girls kept quiet and waited until someone gave them permission to speak.

I would miss sitting here at this table, covered in its red and white gingham cloth, loaded down with country cooking. Around this table, we had our big, noisy Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners with all my aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Papaw's voice cut into my daydreaming. "Roy," he said to Daddy, "are you sure you want to drive that U-Haul around Dead Man's Curve? Hiring a mover handle it may be wiser."

Despite his anxiety about the long trip, Daddy said, "We'll make it okay. Now it's time to get going."

We all walked outside. Mema hugged us. The men all stood around, eyes downcast. Everyone had tears in their eyes. We needed to go.

Daddy climbed behind the steering wheel, Mama beside him. Caroline and I piled into the back seat, and we pulled out onto Granville Road. I knew Mema was standing on the porch, waving goodbye, but the U-Haul blocked my view.

Usually, Caroline and I sat in the back seat and played games or squabbled, mostly about things I do that shouldn't bother her, but they do. I would aggravate her by singing or pulling my feet up on the seat too close to her. Today, however, with tension in the air, we kept quiet. She read a book. I watched the miles go by.

As we approached Dead Man's curve, Mama stared straight ahead, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Caroline was breathing weirdly as she does when she gets nervous. I watched out the window, offering silent thanks as we reached the bottom of the hill. We made it.

Somewhere along the highway in Alabama, the load shifted, and the trailer wobbled. Suddenly, it swung around and Daddy almost lost control of the car. His face turned red, and he started using his Marine Corps words that I hardly ever heard. We made a hard landing against the guardrail. Walking around the back of the rig, he assessed the damage.

When he got back in the car, his face was serious. "I don't think we can go any further with this trailer," he said. "The car is ok, but the hitch is coming loose."

Two men in a pickup helped him unhitch the trailer and pull it off the highway.

We drove to a roadside diner with a motel a few miles away. After we finished eating, Daddy used a pay phone to call a mover who would take our stuff the rest of the way to Texas.

The motel was a low building, constructed of cinder blocks painted white. Our room had one double bed and one twin. The hotel manager brought a roll-away bed for me to sleep in. Daddy and Mama sat on lawn chairs outside the motel after Caroline and I climbed into bed. 

I tiptoed and looked out the window. I remember seeing Daddy sitting outside in the dark, smoking a cigarette. They looked worried. What had they done in selling out, getting rid of our dog, and leaving the only home me and Caroline had ever known? Would this move bring happiness or misery?

Morning came. A mover and some helpers moved our belongings from the U-Haul to a cross-country moving truck. We wouldn't see our things again until we got to our new home.

Daddy returned the trailer, and we drove on toward Texas. We would travel faster now that we weren't pulling the trailer. We rode in the car for what felt like forever. The highway took us south and west through Alabama, then Mississippi and Louisiana. The view out the window changed from forest to fields and then, finally, to the flat, coastal plain. 

Around 4 pm on the third day of the trip, we saw a huge, high bridge looming ahead. "That's the Rainbow Bridge," Daddy said. "We can see Texas from the top!"

"Wow," I responded, my blue eyes wide with excitement.

"It's the highest bridge in the state of Texas," he said.

I looked over in my sister's direction. Her eyes were wide, too, but not with excitement. It was terror.

"Stop the car," she said. "I'm getting out."

"You can't get out," he said. 

"I'm afraid of heights," came her quavering response. 

She wasn't lying. Caroline was terrified of just about everything. That included heights. I looked over at her and saw beads of sweat on her forehead.

"Caroline," Mama said sternly, "we've got to go over the bridge. Just don't look."

My sister shrank back into the corner of the Buick's wide seat and covered her eyes with her hands.

We had reached the foot of the enormous bridge. 

"Wow!" I declared. "It's just like a rollercoaster!"

"Shut up!" came Caroline's voice from the corner.

We were on the bridge now, making the climb to its crest. I heard the thumping sound the tires made on the asphalt.

As we came to the top of the bridge, I moved to the middle of the back seat to see through the front windshield.

Ahead loomed a city of tall smokestacks wrapped in fog. A thick cloud of dense, dark gray smoke topped each stack, stretching as far as my eyes could see. As we got closer, I noticed the orange flames on top of tall skinny pipes. The air had a heavy, metallic odor. I could taste it. So, this was Texas.

What I saw made me think about things Grandaddy said about hell. Is this how fire and brimstone looks and smells?

"It stinks," Caroline complained from her corner.

I sank back in my seat. I had no expectations for our new home, but it turned out to be the ugliest and smelliest place I had ever seen. Why on earth were Mama and Daddy bringing us here?

As much as I had chaffed against the sameness of life in North Carolina, our little corner of the world was beautiful. I loved the rolling hills, green and fragrant with pine. Just a short walk from our house, there was a place where the mountains seemed to kiss the sky.

Daddy looked at me in the rearview mirror. "That smell is from refining oil into gasoline. It smells like money to all the people who work here."

I glanced over at Caroline. Once over the bridge, she sat up and wrinkled her nose at the foul smell in the air. She looked like she might vomit.

Mama didn't look too happy either. We were moving so she could be close to her family. I doubted she would complain.

Daddy stopped to get gas and directions to the house in Groves where Mamaw and Grandaddy lived. He pulled up at a gas pump and the attendant appeared at the window. After he had pumped the gas and cleaned the windshield, Daddy asked him how to get to the address Mamaw had sent us.

I bounced on my seat. I couldn't wait to see Mamaw and Grandaddy. Even better, I would get to meet my new cousin, Little Bug. 

We pulled up into the yard and everyone came streaming out. Pretty soon, Mamaw engulfed me in a big hug. Mama was hugging Aunt Helen and crying. Helen's husband, Bud, walked out, leading a toddler by the hand. 

This was our new life. I already knew it would not be what I had expected.

I shook off my disappointment. There must be something for me here. It was my job to put a smile on my face and wade into it.

The summer passed in a blur of long, hot days. We were staying with Mamaw and Grandaddy until Daddy found work and we could get a place of our own. He got up every morning and set out to knock on doors, asking if they were hiring.

Daddy found a job in Port Arthur with a company that did services for the refineries. Now, we had to find a place to live. Every afternoon, after Daddy got off work, we drove around through nearby neighborhoods, looking for a "distressed property."

One afternoon, we were driving through a neighborhood of tidy houses, except for one. "See that?" I asked, pointing at a house with a messy yard and a broken window. Mama turned around and gave me a big smile.

Daddy pulled out the notepad he always carried in his pocket and scribbled down the address. Then, he walked over to talk to a man washing his car on the next driveway.

"The boy that owned the house had to go on disability and couldn't keep up with the payments," Daddy said as he climbed back into the car. He always called everybody a boy, even when they were old, like him. "I think we can take over the payments and get this place," he said to Mama.

A few days later, Mama and Daddy went to a meeting at the bank about taking over the mortgage on the house with the overgrown yard. In North Carolina, we always had a place to live free and clear, with no mortgage or landlord. Everything that happened here was changing us.

On the first day of school, my teacher, Mrs. Ward, introduced me to the class. She had a friendly smile, and she kept a collection of animals, including a huge boa constrictor, in her classroom. 

Nervous and excited, I stood in front of the class as Mrs. Ward introduced me, the new girl.

This is Jaime, Mrs. Ward said. She moved here from her home in the Appalachian Mountains. Then, she walked over and pulled down a map of the United States, and pointed out where I used to live.

A boy, Charlie Thibodeaux, made a snorting laugh. "She's a hillbilly," he said, and some of the other kids laughed, too.

I felt my face glow red with embarrassment. I'm different, I thought. I don't fit in here.

"She doesn't look like Ellie May," another boy shouted.

"Charlie! John Michael! your comments are uncalled for. Jaime is our new classmate. When we meet people from different places, it's our chance to learn from them. I expect you to make her welcome." The boys settled down, but the damage was done.

I wanted to disappear into the floor. Instead, I sat at the desk Mrs. Ward indicated. The glow and excitement of coming to this new place had vanished.

I dreamed of a place to be free, to be true to myself. Instead, I would be judged, once again, by people who thought they knew who I was.

Texas suddenly felt like a place, not of hope, but where dreams go to die.