I woke to the smell of burnt coffee and bacon sizzling over an open fire. Early morning fog danced above the Illinois river as it snaked its way around Gypsy Camp. A ghostlty eeriness shrouded the silent cabins along its bank. Sharp cliffs sporadically jutted from the water leaving an occasional boulder smooth to stretch upon and pass the lazy afternoon in day dreams. Willow trees and cane intertwined along the bank housing small croaking frogs and soft shelled turtles. Once again the Scissor Tails began building their nests, and in the distance a Loon announced the newborn day.
The sky broke into a kaleidoscope of color as I walked to the waters edge to wash my face. Yawning and stretching I turned back to the sound of Grandmother's voice.
Bessie Bell was her name. A free spirit with no restrictions to bind, she moved with the grace of a doe and drew you into herself with liquid brown eyes that reflected your every move, and a smile that melted the coldest of hearts. She possessed a freedom of spirit that the inner self yearns for but seldom attains. An aura of mystery encircled her like a velvet cloak, soft to the touch yet dark and mysterious.
She had secrets she told only to the spirit of the river. It sparkled with pleasure and swirled then sprayed as it danced with glee, the stories she shared just for the pleasure of telling them. And I, being only a small child, listened---enraptured by the melodious sound of her voice, would fall, spellbound into the middle of her fantasy chasm and drift peacefully from word to word as she lulled me to sleep. Only when I awoke to the tinkling her laughter played on the wind did I realize we had journied far and beyond the normal realm. The road we were destined to travel together would take us back into the land of enchantment where love never dies.
Now like soldiers we walked single file along the worn cow path. Dung squeezed unnoticeed between our toes. My eyes strayed to the black and yellow butterfly dancing on her right shoulder.
Stepping into a small clearing. I watched fascinated, as she gracefully raised her faded cotton dress and while standing, delicately relieved herself, not caring a whit for man nor copperhead. She deftly sidestepped the puddle and waited for me to follow suit. I squinted my eyes and glanced around the meadow before stepping out of my drawers. She flashed me a toothless grin. Eyes sparkling, she howled with glee as i missed and wet the back of my dress. Darn!
"Takes practice! Y'll learn!" she said while absently walking away.
Most of our summers were lazily spent camping along the Illinois. The Gayheart Hole, the Gar Hole and Dunlap camp near Lake Francis were some of our favorite places.
Wherever the fishing was good, we camped, sometimes staying weeks then going home long enough to take care of business. Daddy and Grandaddy set out their trotlines by boat while Mother and Grandmother fished from the bank. The Gayheart Hole was my favorite. Lot's of vines for swinging!
We stayed in Granddaddy's old 47 Ford pickup truck. The bed had an old tarp stretched over bent poles for a cover. A frame was built to hold a cotton mattress, upon which we slept. Under that was kept our fishing and camping equipment. Long cane poles were attached to the sides Our home away from home. A Beverly Hillbilly R.V. I loved it! We cooked our meals over an open fire. There was always an abundance of soup, taters, fish and coffee.
Bessie loved to fish./ While others were checking their poles she was claiming her spot along the river bank. There she sat in regal splendor, her old straw hat perched on her silver head like a diamond tiara. Her skin, like tanned leather. proclaimed tiny wrinkles that cascaded across her forehead, around her eyes and cheekbones then trickled down her chin and neck like a road map. Her Cherokee blook gave her an ancient apple doll appearance. To me she was exquisite/. A bond between the two of us was shared by no other. She was mine, except when she was fishing. Then she and the river became as one. She baited her hook. spit on the worm and entered a world of her own. When you approached her you did so quietly and spoke in a hushed whisper;.
"They can hear you," she said softly. Never once did I doubt her or check to see if the fish had ears. Fishing was serious business to her. She claimed the fish could feel the vibrations of your footsteps at the water's edge and hear your words when you spoke.
Day after day I watched as she religiously talked to her night crawlers. Maybe because she was more patient, or because she spit on her wormm but at the end of the day her stringer was usually full and her brown face illuminated her large toothless smile.
The sun dropped its golden ball behind the rugged bluff as another day bid us farewell. I saw Grandmother walking alone in the distance. She suddenly stopped,slowly bent over and picked up a large rock then hurling it at something on the worn trail.
I watched as she moved cautiously toward it. She stooped and appeared to chop at it. Darn! She'd seen me spying on her! With a forked stick she held her trophy up and smacked her lips! I kicked a dried cow patty and reluctantly joined her, hearing her giggling all the way back to the camp. She knew what I was thinking. I had seen her mangle the snake. I was right too! Tonight we'd be eating snake feet soup for supper! Grandmother had already cut the feet off this one! Now, I knew most snakes didn't have feet! The fact that T've never actually seen feet on any of the snakes that Grandmother killed doesn't mean they weren't there. Like Grandmother told me once. you can't see the wind either!
Grandfmother sat facing me with her legs crosseed Indian style, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She dipped her bread into the bowl and sopped the soup then popped it into her mouth. As juice trickled down her chin she ate with gusto and relished every bite. Each time our eyes met she winked at me and smacked her lips. Actually the soup wasn't bad. In fact it was delicious. For some strange readon it always tasted and looked like vegetable beef soup!
The fire was warm to my face. It sizzled and crackled as if sharing a joke with Bess.
The soup was warm in my tummy. My eyelids were getting heavy. It had been another long, lazy day. We finally crawled into the back of the old pick-up truck and settled down for another nights journey through the stars.
"Long time ago there was a little injun boy," she began,"but he wasn't like the other little injun kids. He had a magic rock and every time he struck it with another rock it would turn him into any animal that he wanted." The river listened quietly. The frogs and turtles were her audience, but I being only a small child, was drifting peacefully in my own slumber land of dreams.
The sky broke into a kaleidoscope of color as I walked to the waters edge to wash my face. Yawning and stretching I turned back to the sound of Grandmother's voice.
Bessie Bell was her name. A free spirit with no restrictions to bind, she moved with the grace of a doe and drew you into herself with liquid brown eyes that reflected your every move, and a smile that melted the coldest of hearts. She possessed a freedom of spirit that the inner self yearns for but seldom attains. An aura of mystery encircled her like a velvet cloak, soft to the touch yet dark and mysterious.
She had secrets she told only to the spirit of the river. It sparkled with pleasure and swirled then sprayed as it danced with glee, the stories she shared just for the pleasure of telling them. And I, being only a small child, listened---enraptured by the melodious sound of her voice, would fall, spellbound into the middle of her fantasy chasm and drift peacefully from word to word as she lulled me to sleep. Only when I awoke to the tinkling her laughter played on the wind did I realize we had journied far and beyond the normal realm. The road we were destined to travel together would take us back into the land of enchantment where love never dies.
Now like soldiers we walked single file along the worn cow path. Dung squeezed unnoticeed between our toes. My eyes strayed to the black and yellow butterfly dancing on her right shoulder.
Stepping into a small clearing. I watched fascinated, as she gracefully raised her faded cotton dress and while standing, delicately relieved herself, not caring a whit for man nor copperhead. She deftly sidestepped the puddle and waited for me to follow suit. I squinted my eyes and glanced around the meadow before stepping out of my drawers. She flashed me a toothless grin. Eyes sparkling, she howled with glee as i missed and wet the back of my dress. Darn!
"Takes practice! Y'll learn!" she said while absently walking away.
Most of our summers were lazily spent camping along the Illinois. The Gayheart Hole, the Gar Hole and Dunlap camp near Lake Francis were some of our favorite places.
Wherever the fishing was good, we camped, sometimes staying weeks then going home long enough to take care of business. Daddy and Grandaddy set out their trotlines by boat while Mother and Grandmother fished from the bank. The Gayheart Hole was my favorite. Lot's of vines for swinging!
We stayed in Granddaddy's old 47 Ford pickup truck. The bed had an old tarp stretched over bent poles for a cover. A frame was built to hold a cotton mattress, upon which we slept. Under that was kept our fishing and camping equipment. Long cane poles were attached to the sides Our home away from home. A Beverly Hillbilly R.V. I loved it! We cooked our meals over an open fire. There was always an abundance of soup, taters, fish and coffee.
Bessie loved to fish./ While others were checking their poles she was claiming her spot along the river bank. There she sat in regal splendor, her old straw hat perched on her silver head like a diamond tiara. Her skin, like tanned leather. proclaimed tiny wrinkles that cascaded across her forehead, around her eyes and cheekbones then trickled down her chin and neck like a road map. Her Cherokee blook gave her an ancient apple doll appearance. To me she was exquisite/. A bond between the two of us was shared by no other. She was mine, except when she was fishing. Then she and the river became as one. She baited her hook. spit on the worm and entered a world of her own. When you approached her you did so quietly and spoke in a hushed whisper;.
"They can hear you," she said softly. Never once did I doubt her or check to see if the fish had ears. Fishing was serious business to her. She claimed the fish could feel the vibrations of your footsteps at the water's edge and hear your words when you spoke.
Day after day I watched as she religiously talked to her night crawlers. Maybe because she was more patient, or because she spit on her wormm but at the end of the day her stringer was usually full and her brown face illuminated her large toothless smile.
The sun dropped its golden ball behind the rugged bluff as another day bid us farewell. I saw Grandmother walking alone in the distance. She suddenly stopped,slowly bent over and picked up a large rock then hurling it at something on the worn trail.
I watched as she moved cautiously toward it. She stooped and appeared to chop at it. Darn! She'd seen me spying on her! With a forked stick she held her trophy up and smacked her lips! I kicked a dried cow patty and reluctantly joined her, hearing her giggling all the way back to the camp. She knew what I was thinking. I had seen her mangle the snake. I was right too! Tonight we'd be eating snake feet soup for supper! Grandmother had already cut the feet off this one! Now, I knew most snakes didn't have feet! The fact that T've never actually seen feet on any of the snakes that Grandmother killed doesn't mean they weren't there. Like Grandmother told me once. you can't see the wind either!
Grandfmother sat facing me with her legs crosseed Indian style, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She dipped her bread into the bowl and sopped the soup then popped it into her mouth. As juice trickled down her chin she ate with gusto and relished every bite. Each time our eyes met she winked at me and smacked her lips. Actually the soup wasn't bad. In fact it was delicious. For some strange readon it always tasted and looked like vegetable beef soup!
The fire was warm to my face. It sizzled and crackled as if sharing a joke with Bess.
The soup was warm in my tummy. My eyelids were getting heavy. It had been another long, lazy day. We finally crawled into the back of the old pick-up truck and settled down for another nights journey through the stars.
"Long time ago there was a little injun boy," she began,"but he wasn't like the other little injun kids. He had a magic rock and every time he struck it with another rock it would turn him into any animal that he wanted." The river listened quietly. The frogs and turtles were her audience, but I being only a small child, was drifting peacefully in my own slumber land of dreams.
