Down by the Riverside
Page 21
We walked like the children of Israel sent out of Egypt and down to the Red Sea. We walked in a common spirit of kinship and goodwill and we walked to where Lucas had lined up rows of chairs, the choir from the Shining Light Baptist Church, and tables to leave our food. We all took our places along with the others from the campground to move from remembering a man who brought families together and who honored life to remember a little girl who conversed with angels.
Janice and Frank Miller were a long ways from being healed of their misery, but they joined in the singing and the praying as they held on tightly to their youngest daughter, Clara, who was so assured of her sister’s wholeness that she relied on it for her family’s repair. They stood surrounded by folks they didn’t know, but folks they knew cared for them, for their loss, and for their broken hearts.
After the river service, Jolie’s funeral, we stood around and ate plates of shared food. We walked down to the quarry where the fence was brought down and out to the place where the old bones of slaves and ancestors had been buried once again. Then we returned to the tents and I met people from the south side of West Memphis and folks who claimed they owed their lives to the Boyds and the second chances they had received at Shady Grove.
Mary acted as the official host, hurrying from task to task, filling glasses with ice and rearranging trays and dishes. Rhonda and Lucas sat with the Millers, and even welcomed the sheriff and his brother, who had come over to make their peace and offer their condolences to those who were bereaved.
Ms. Lou Ellen sat near the dessert table with Mrs. Franklin and as I glanced around at the strangers becoming friends, she waved her little finger at me. I stood leaning against the tree and I smiled and waved back.
Tom walked over, bringing two folding chairs, and we sat down and watched without words as the river rolled past. It wasn’t very long before Clara ran over and fell into my lap.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” she said, throwing her arms around my neck. “I’ve got school soon, and Mama and Daddy have to go back to work.”
“Yes, I know,” I answered, sliding my chin across the top of her head.
“Where you going?” she asked, having noticed that my Bronco was fixed and was parked beside my camper.
I saw Tom look in my direction.
“I don’t think I’m going anywhere right away,” I said.
The little girl lifted her head up and faced me. Her brown eyes studied me.
“Is it because of him?” she asked, pointing at Tom.
I laughed.
“Well, yes,” I answered. “And because I said I would stay and look after Ms. Lou Ellen while Mary goes to visit her family for a couple of weeks.”
By then I had learned that Lucas and Rhonda were gone from Shady Grove so much because they stay on the river visiting a lot of the ex-convicts who live up and down the Mississippi.
They check on them regularly, counsel them, bring them groceries, loan them money. They consider their river work to be their ministry and I respect the kindness they spread.
I thought about the little girl’s question and I added, “I’m also staying because I like it here.”
Clara remained in that position for a few minutes, watching the people at the tents, watching me and Tom, and then stood up, turned around and sat again in my lap, this time facing the same direction I was, out toward the river.
“It’s a good place to be, Rose,” she said, sounding so much older than her years.
“Yeah?” I said. “What makes you think so?” I asked.
“Well, with all these people coming and going at a campground and I guess especially the ones who stay a long time”—she turned and looked again at Tom, then she leaned her head against my shoulder—“you’ll never be alone.”
I squeezed my arms around her waist and watched the river run past.
And I knew she was right.
There’s a community here. Rhonda, Lucas, Mary, Ms. Lou Ellen, Tom, some of the others I’ve met around the campground, Leonard Elton and Old Man Willie, the ones who fish or hang out at the water, they’re all connected somehow.
They got something holding them together. Deep. Long-lasting. A bond that ties lost souls together and anchors them hard and strong to somebody, to something that will not let them go.
I know most of the folks from my hometown would look down their noses at all of us making our home at Shady Grove. They’d call us river rats or trailer trash or homeless folks living on the fringe of society, but I don’t care. I love this place and the people here. It’s the most genuine hospitality I’ve ever experienced.
It’s true, I thought, as I sat with the little girl watching the muddy river. I might not understand where I came from or where I was heading, but I certainly knew where I was.
I am Rose Franklin and I’m in West Memphis, Arkansas, at the Shady Grove Campground. I am sitting right on the banks of the Mississippi River, surrounded by the ones I now call my family.
I’m wrapped up tight in the arms of love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges Linda McFall for believing in this series and for helping move the story along; Sabrina Soares Roberts for her very keen eye; Sally McMillan for her support and grace; and the staff at Tom Sawyer’s Campground in West Memphis, Arkansas, for creating a lovely place where stories can happen.
ALSO BY JACKIE LYNN,
WRITING AS LYNNE HINTON
FICTION
Friendship Cake
Hope Springs
Forever Friends
The Things I Know Best
The Last Odd Day
The Arms of God
NONFICTION
Meditations for Walking