Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

Across the rippling creek and over the bridge with its rusty rails, I followed Mama, who was carrying a warm chocolate cake. As any 4-year-old would do, I stopped at the center of the bridge, admiring the lazy water bubbling toward the Chattahoochee.

“Little ‘un, c’mon,” Mama said over her shoulder. I ran to catch up. Within a couple of minutes, we arrived at our destination: a tiny shack with a porch that heaved with weariness and ceilings so low that I eyed them with certainty that in another year, I could touch them with the finger tips of an outstretched arm. A musty smell mixed with rotting wood hung in the air.

The humble abode of the Westmorelands was not my first encounter with how poor people lived. My parents were from the mountains and both had grown up in such conditions. My grandparents still lived like that.

Though not much more than a toddler, I knew there was a graveness about the situation. Mama and Mrs. Westmoreland talked softly, sadness in their voices. In another room, a grandmother lay dying, her final breaths inching her toward eternity. Back then, there was no such thing as nursing homes. Folks took in the elderly and cared for them, without resentment, but with respectful, loving obligation.

This is how wonderful America is: every day, the yellow school bus stopped there to pick up three ragged children. One grew up to become a beloved doctor across four counties. Another raised a fine family, contributing strongly to society. The youngest became a fireman.

When the shack fell down, the fireman put a trailer there and raised his family including a darkhaired girl with beautiful eyes. Those children, who came from slightly better conditions than their father, also grew up to be hard working Americans who contribute to our society.

Years ago, a hundred-year-old, two-story, farmhouse sold on the other end of our road. The new owner made it lovely by adding vintage decorations to the front porch and a set of chairs. Often, I would pass and see her there, reading a book. One day, I stopped to introduce myself. As is the way with Southerners, I asked questions like “Where are you from?” and “Who are your people?”

It turned out that she was originally from the trailer that set where the old shack had been. Her great-grandmother was the one who was dying when Mama and I took the cake over there. She’s so pretty and kind. She works for a company that allows her to work from home.

“All I ever wanted was to come back here,” she explained. “It’s home. That’s comforting.”

“You can’t outrun home,” I agreed, knowingly.

We became friends, more than neighbors. She allowed me to pick apples from her tree for our horses. One day last winter, she was driving by and saw me shoveling gravel for our driveway from the roadside that the county had laid during a snow. For 14 years, I used Simpson’s for gravel. Last time, they brought a load of sand with pieces of gravel. I called the company and explained to a guy named Adam.

He laughed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

I’ve called the owner several times but he pays me no attention. So, I was shoveling gravel that the county laid. My neighbor was laughing when she said, “I could use some gravel, too.”

When her son joined the military, I prayed for him regularly. When he applied for a top secret government job, I vouched for him. A few weeks ago, her daughter graduated from med school, with honors, and became a surgeon at a prestigious hospital.

All that from a rotting shack. Let it not be forgotten that America is truly the land of opportunity. Happy 250th Anniversary, my good and faithful friend. May you have hundreds more.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell mystery series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.