Bodark Creek - 3. Chapter 3

Mama was almost twenty-six when she moved to Hattiesburg. For three years, she lived in a boarding house and worked in the mill. Daddy had been there longer. “Emilie and I moved there just after Sonny was born, when I needed steady work. Before that, I was mainly on farms.”

Mama and Daddy had both grown up on farms, but Daddy was happy to leave. “We didn’t own ours, the way your mama’s family did. And after the war, we didn’t own anything.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We kind of fought on the wrong side.”

That was all he’d say. And maybe because Daddy’s family had so little, his sisters got married as soon as they could. His brothers just went off and found jobs. “I was almost the youngest,” he told me, “but they still figured I’d take care of myself.”

“That sounds mean,” I said.

“No, they knew I’d be all right.”

Daddy lived on his own for eight years, but he was still only twenty-one when he got married. Before that, he worked wherever he could. “I’ve been as far north as Maryland, and as far west as New Mexico. And I’ve worked through North and South Carolina, and Virginia and West Virginia, and Georgia, Alabama...”

“I thought you were in Florida, too,” Mama said.

“Nah, I only thought we were in Florida. Turned out we never crossed the state line.”

“Were you too young to remember?” I asked.

“Too something,” Daddy said. Then he laughed.

He didn’t like farms, and he didn’t like animals, except our dog. “Cows and pigs stink, and chickens are the dirtiest creatures there are.”

I liked chickens. Some of our neighbors had them, and I always liked feeding them. “I don’t think they’re dirty,” I told him.

“That’s ‘cause you’ve never seen more than a handful of them. If you had to clean up a chicken house, every morning from the time you were four, you’d never go near those birds.”

“You eat them,” I said.

“Yeah, well...”

“Did you like Hattiesburg?” I asked. You could tell he didn’t want to talk about chickens. “Did you like it better than here?”

“Hattiesburg was all right.” Daddy was fixing something for Mama, so didn’t seem to mind talking while he worked. “Hattiesburg is bigger than here, but I didn’t know as many people. And we’ve got a better church here, too.”

Daddy spent a lot of time at church. We all did. We went every Sunday morning, then for gatherings and dances. Most of the time, when Daddy wasn’t at the mill, he was building something at church.

“That will last a hundred years,” he’d say, finishing up a bench or a table. He said the same thing when he made things at home.

“Teach me to build,” I’d say.

“Not yet, Addy. Maybe when you’re bigger than my saw.”

“Rosalind helps.”

“No, she only thinks she does. She’s just my extra set of hands.”

“Use mine then.”

“Someday. Someday, I might. But only if you’re good and patient.”

I didn’t like doing that. Waiting was never much fun.

“Do you like building things here better than at the church?” I asked instead.

“I don’t know. It’s all pretty much the same.”

“Well, do you like building things here better than working at the mill?”

He looked at me. “That’s what I do all day at the mill, Addy. I build and fix things. You knew that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, I’ve told you it before.”

“Then I forgot.”

Daddy laughed at that, then he pushed in my nose. That always made me laugh.

While Daddy was building at the mill, Mama was weaving. She made sheets.

“What do you do with all those sheets?” I asked. “Don’t you ever have enough?”

“I hope not,” Mama said. “Then we’d be in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because then we wouldn’t get paid. And if that didn’t happen, we couldn’t buy food.”

“But don’t they ever run out of beds?”

Mama smiled at that, “It’s not that kind of sheeting, Addy. It’s used for other things. Lots of things. Some of them, I don’t even know about.”

“Do you like working at the mill, Mama?”

That made her smile again. “There’s nothing to like or dislike really. It’s just something I do.”

Mama met Daddy when they were working at the mill in Hattiesburg. This was after Emilie died.

“What was she like?” I asked Mama. “Did you like her?”

“I never met Emilie,” Mama said. “She was gone before I moved into town.”

“Did Daddy like her?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“He said he remembers her.”

“Just as he’d remember you or me.”

“But he doesn’t have to remember us. We’re right here.”

“But if something happened...”

“Like...?”

“Something I don’t want to talk about, Addy. It’s not bad luck. It’s just...”

“Well, how come if Daddy remembers Emilie, he never talks about her?”

Mama said nothing to that, as if she was thinking. “It’s hard, Addy,” she finally said. “It’s not like Daddy wants to forget Emilie. But he doesn’t want to make me feel bad. And talking about her might do that.”

“That’s sad,” I told Mama.

“Maybe.”

“It’s sad,” I told Rosalind. But she didn’t agree. “Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s like having to make up your mind between Mama and Daddy. Or choosing if you like me more than Charley.”

I couldn’t choose among my family. Just as I couldn’t pick where I wanted to live. I’d heard a lot about Hattiesburg, and I knew about our part of town. But I’d never gone much further than the church or the mill. And I’d never even been on a farm.

“Did you miss your farm?” I asked Mama.

She shook her head. “It’s my brother’s now.”

“Would he let you visit?”

“Of course, he would.”

“Would you take me with you?”

“If I was going. If I was going, we’d all go. But it’s too far.”

“How far?”

“Very far.”

“The farthest you’ve ever been?”

“Probably.” She didn’t really have to think about that, because Mama hadn’t traveled as much as Daddy. In fact, she once told me the farthest she’d ever gone was Bodark Creek.

“Why did you pick here?” I’d asked her.

“Because we’d heard the mill was hiring.”