BULL #10 (Dating, print version)

It was Labor Day, eight years to the day I’d run away from home heartbroken and barren. Like any other holiday, I took a drive on the Natchez Trace Parkway to check in on the Confederates’ graves, but I do believe that’s when it all began to turn. The morning’s rain steamed off the road, unspooling in patches and wisps, and my Mustang glided through. Waves of lush green hills sloped up from each shoulder and in a crisp blue sky white clouds burst like cattails gone to seed. Being there filled the emptiness that stole in when my school bus was parked and gated, no children to shepherd back and forth from Tellman Elementary.

Memories of Daddy and Eli kept me company. Daddy repaired power lines for Dixie Electric and spent every holiday on call, so the Trace was the last place he’d be today. I’d seen maybe four cars since Hurricane Creek, ninety minutes back. Hamstrung by low speed limits and slow curves, the Natchez Trace never could compete with the interstates. World’s gotten too fast for the Trace, Cora, Daddy used to say. It’s a 400-mile history lesson now . . . (continues)