It was hard motivating myself to sit at my desk and write another chapter this morning (I’m several chapters ahead of the snippets I post. I wrote chapter 4 this morning and maybe I will get some of chapter 5 done today too. Bonus!). I reserve Tuesday mornings, and possibly afternoons, for my writing. I teach writing classes at a local university and by the time I’m done talking in class and/or reading student work, I’ve got nothing left for my own work. So Tuesday mornings are sacred and all mine.
This chapter shifts back to 1975 and Terri’ s point of view. Terri is a widow and must move back, with her daughter, to Terri’s childhood home, a move she loathes to make, but must.
Chapter 3 Snippet
I laughed. “No. I lived in a house. We just can’t see it from here.” I climbed back into the car, wincing as I bumped my ankle. I drove a bit farther, stopping just before the road dips and begins to slip down into a small valley.
Below was the land that had been in my family for generations. A land grant as payment for fighting in the Revolutionary War, the farm had remained in family hands through the generations, tied to the land in ways many in Buck’s Eye were tied to their property — through family that never really seemed to leave.
“It looks like our other house,” Chelsea said, and in many ways it similar to the one we’d left — white farmhouse with wraparound porch, a barn not far from the house, a small shed. This farm had some differences — a small fishing pond where I and my grandfather spent hours with fishing line dangling into the water, not too concerned with whether or not we caught anything. When he passed, he was buried in the small family plot set back into a stand of birch trees a short distance from the house.
The faint slam of a door reached us up on the knoll and a small figure stepped out of the shadows of the porch, shading her eyes as she looked up the road. One oak tree stood beside the steps; not two. The missing tree reminded me things had changed while I was gone. My grandmother’s beds of irises, daylilies and morning glories were covered in grass. The farm pond’s bank was bare — only four grey, splintered posts remained of Grandpa’s small fishing dock.
“There’s Grandma D,” Chelsea said.
“Yes, it is.”
“She has horses!” Chelsea said, clapping her hands. “Look Charlotte!” She snatched the small rag doll off the seat. “Horses!”
“Where?” I asked. I didn’t see any horses; never had, even though the phantom herd I’d heard my mother talk about was an intricate part of my childhood.