Chapter 4

I woke to mellow sunlight spraying my bed and my avian friends serenading as usual. “Don’t you know it is far past getting-up time?” A mocking bird scolded. “Shame on you late sleeper.”

After that scathing sermon I tossed the cover back and scrambled out of bed. I must get my early morning chores done and return to the “falls”. God, please refresh my memory. I can’t write this book without you.

I rush about doing necessary jobs to the tune of chittering Chimney Swifts that have returned from last year. The mama is feeding them. In my imagination I see them, wings strutted out, mouths gaping wide; they’re excessively hungry and ready for a nourishing meal. They’re jubilant—another worm for an empty stomach.

Finally my chores are finished. I’m off to the “falls” which is only a short walking distance. I stump the white-gray gravels, anxious to get there. Summer is bowing out; there are hints of autumn. It’s somewhere near 10 A.M., early for me but eagerness propels me; what will I see today? There’s a loud smell of humus steaming out of the “falls”. My footsteps quicken. Ah, at least I’m there. I ease my way down the bank like I’ve done many times before. The snapping of twigs under my feet and rattling of dried leaves has interrupted the early morning search of a salamander for food. He skitters under brown leaves and disappears, ears keen to suspicious sounds.

A Gray squirrel scampers up an oak tree, twitching his plume of a tail, parading his beauty. I gaze at him with admiration; he’s one of the prettiest of all the “falls” animals; he gives me an analytical appraisal, “Where’s this smarty coming from?” he asks, centering his black beads on me. Allow me to transpose. Perhaps he’s saying, “Aha, I out-smarted you this time. Let me see you get me now.” “Squack, squack,” he scolds. “If you try to climb this tree after me I’ll jump to another limb, another limb, and another limb; I’ll just keep going. You’ll be playing a losing game. Don’t try it.”

I stoop down, scoop a handful of decayed, organic matter, and view their contents in the palm of my hand. I think back to the days when my mother would take a bucket and shovel into the falls. She’d fill the bucket with rich humus, and then return to the house where she’d repot the flowers. My mother has a green thumb, knew what kind of soil would get those flowers going, and no soil could do a better job than the humus out of the “falls”. After mother died I continued as long as I was able to get into the “falls” to get that rich organic soil. That humus smell lingers in my breathing passage to this day.

A little way down where I once dug for humus is one of the most popular wildflowers that belongs to the “Poppy” family—Bloodroot. It announces its appearing early in the springtime. It has 8-12 brilliant white petals, 1-2 inches across. In autumn season all the beautiful ornate petals are gone; they only bloom in the early spring. After flowering time the leaves, palmately lobed, get much larger. Its loveliness has graced the “falls” for years.

I must do a turn-a-round. I stated in a previous chapter that no girls ever took shower baths under the falls. Oops! I slipped. Only a few minutes ago I talked with my niece who lives in Kenova, West Virginia. She told me how my mother several years ago took my three nieces, small children at the time, down to the “falls” to take a shower bath. I was unaware this ever happened. I’ll have to take my time on this book in order to present accurate information. My old teacher, Emogene Bays, 87 years old who lives close to me would be sure to have information because she was born and raised on “Caney Fork”.