When Grace was a little girl in Cordele, Georgia, around the time of World War II, a storm came up one day, and lightning struck the big old tree in her front yard. Grace told me that her daddy wanted to cut the limbs then, but her mama asked him not to b

THE CLIMBING TREE

By Dolores Richardson

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 Dolores Richardson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-4152-6

Contents

Chapter 1......................1Chapter 2......................7Chapter 3......................11Chapter 4......................18Chapter 5......................23Chapter 6......................29Chapter 7......................38Chapter 8......................52Chapter 9......................57Chapter 10.....................65Chapter 11.....................70Chapter 12.....................76Chapter 13.....................95Chapter 14.....................103Chapter 15.....................111Chapter 16.....................124Chapter 17.....................134Chapter 18.....................138Chapter 19.....................144Chapter 20.....................151Chapter 21.....................164

Chapter One

In 1947, Cordele, Georgia, was a sleepy little Southern town with one main downtown street. It had a movie theater, a five-and- dime, a barbershop, one dress shop, and also one café inside the railroad station at one end of the main street and a small hotel at the other end on the corner. Over the railroad tracks and down the hill, there was a farm supply store and several warehouses. There was a small warehouse about two blocks north of our house where everybody sold old clothes and knickknacks about twice a year.

World War II was over, but the posters about Uncle Sam wanting you and the one about Loose Lips Sink Ships were still hanging on buildings. Cordele was beginning to be known for its watermelons, peanuts and juicy corn crops, and (oh my) for the best barbecue in Georgia! I'm pretty sure the best barbecue was made by Cookie Prescott, who owned the café called Prescott's Diner in the Railroad Station. He cooked the barbecue in a little shed that my daddy helped him build about half a block from the railroad station. Once you taste good barbecue, you can't seem to be able to forget how delicious it is!

A few weeks after I celebrated my birthday, Mama began crying a lot. I know that her daughter turning fourteen didn't make her cry, but then I could not figure out what was causing her to be so sad. She refused to answer any questions when I'd ask her what was wrong. She even denied she was crying sometimes. Other times she'd say that she just thought of something sad, but she never told me what it was. The only time I'd ever seen her cry a lot before was when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died. She grieved for weeks after that happened, and I mean grieved just as if he were family. She sure did love President Roosevelt. I wish now I had kept asking questions. Actually there were lots of wishes I had about Mama during that time.

It seemed that one day Mama was showing me how to sew buttons on a blouse, telling me how smart and bright I was, how I must remember to think hard and figure things out, and telling me that I should always believe in myself. Then the next day, she was so sick, she could not get out of bed. Daddy went to find Dr. Wilson, and by the time he took him to see about her, she was calling for me to hold her hand and not let go. I did not understand what was happening, and even after she died and Dr. Wilson told me to let go of her hand, I still could not believe she was gone.

"Go on away from your mama now, Grace. She's passed on," Dr. Wilson said as he pulled me gently to my feet from where I was kneeling beside Mama's bed. I had never hated anybody's mustache before then, but I sure hated his at the time, all wiggly and twitching while he talked to me. I don't remember what else he said though. My grandma Phillips came in about then, and she started crying and wringing her hands, and Dr. Wilson forgot about me.

I tried to stand close beside Daddy, partly because he looked so sad and I felt like I was going to scream out loud any minute, but he would not even look at me. He wouldn't hold my hand or even let me lean on him. He acted like he was not paying any attention to me at all. He was just looking out the window and then back over to the bed where Grandma was straightening the covers on Mama.

I gave up trying to get Daddy's attention, and I took off out the back door, turning left just before I got to Mama's washtubs standing there all lined up for this coming week's washing. I ran around to the front yard, past the climbing tree and across the street, and then down past the little Catholic Church where I crossed that street and ran into the woods.

I sat down and leaned back against a big old tree. I talked to Mama, not trying to disturb her or change her mind about dying, but just to let her know I loved her. I knew I would always love her. I asked God to keep his light on because I didn't want to think of Mama being in the dark. That's when I knew I had to get back home before anybody missed me. I learned one thing in those woods that day. An old tree has a heartbeat, just like a human being. If I'd stayed there any longer, I believe it might have spoken to me.

When I walked back into the house, I could see Grandma Phillips had been organizing everything. "Go eat your supper, Grace," she said as soon as I shut the screen door behind me. "The funeral home people are picking up Rose's body soon, and they'll be bringing it back to rest for a few days in your room. So I want you to clean up your room really good, do you hear me?"

I guess my mind was on slow because I couldn't understand what the funeral home people were picking up Mama's body for, with it being so close to nighttime. "Why are they coming so soon?" I blurted out in a louder voice than I meant. All three, Dr. Wilson, Daddy, and Grandma Phillips stopped talking and just stared at me. "I'll go clean up my room later." I could see Daddy was still staring out the window, but now I figured he was looking for the funeral home van. I wondered why he wouldn't say anything to me or why he wouldn't even look at me. Oh, how I wanted him to! But he didn't. He probably had a lot on his mind.

Then Dr. Wilson put his arm around my shoulders. That's when my heart up and broke and I started bawling. He kept patting my shoulder and explaining as best he could that Mama had known she was real sick for a few weeks but she had not been able to make up her mind to go to the hospital in Macon like he had wanted her to do. I just cried louder and louder while thinking that here I had been the last few days with Mama and I was just acting like it was another ordinary day. What if I could have done something to keep Mama from dying? Would she have died if she'd gone to the hospital in Macon? Could I have talked her into going? I had so many questions; however, I didn't think Daddy would answer me then. He just seemed like he had the weight of the whole world on him.

Grandma motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. She told me I should eat something so I wouldn't get sick. I could see she was beside herself, so I put my arms around her and hugged her tight. "Oh, Gracie," Grandma said, "your poor sweet mama is gone forever!" We both bawled and completely missed seeing the funeral home men picking Mama up and heading with her out to their van. But we did get to the front porch in time to see them shut the door and drive off. I had a sudden impulse to run after them, but Grandma was still holding on to me tight.

Daddy got into his truck and followed the funeral van. Grandma said he had to go down to the funeral home and sign papers or something. Grandma said I could get started on cleaning my room. And oh, yes, she told me again she wanted me to eat so I would not get sick. As if I cared whether I ever ate anything again if my mama couldn't eat. I bawled like a baby, and I almost missed it when Dr. Wilson left to walk to his house down the street from ours. I know he said "Take care, Grace. I'm so sorry, girl," and I don't know what else he said. There just did not seem to be anything that made sense in the world anymore, and I wondered then if it ever would.

The next afternoon, the funeral home van brought Mama's body back from the funeral home and rolled her casket in through the front door and through our parlor. They rolled it into my bedroom. Daddy had moved my bed out, and people from the funeral home had started setting up folding chairs all around my room. Grandma Phillips and Uncle Paul came in soon after, and Grandma said I had done a good job cleaning up my bedroom, that it looked like a parlor, and my mama would be proud of me. She and Uncle Paul had stayed with her other son, my mama's brother, Clark, and his wife, Barbara, and they would be coming over later. And oh, yes, the funeral would be the next day!

All I had to do was wait. Everybody left that night. I even waited until I heard Daddy go out the front door and leave in his truck. Daddy's truck was the only one I'd ever heard with that squeaking nose. Mama had wanted him to get it checked, but he had insisted it was all right and that he could repair almost anything that old truck needed.

Then I slipped into my bedroom and said my prayers, standing beside Mama's casket. I thought about climbing into the casket with her, but I changed my mind. I was long and tall, even an inch or two taller than Mama, and I had long legs while she had short ones. I was afraid that I might crowd her too much and then the rollers might give way. I was eighty-one pounds, but I figured that might just be enough to cause the rollers to move. I didn't know then how I'd be able to explain breaking my mama's casket or, even worse, causing it to dump her body on the floor. I was shaking all over at the thought.

Then I put my quilt and pillow down on the floor under her casket. All night long the smell of the flowers was so sweet and strong that, at first, I thought I'd get sick. I said the Lord's Prayer, and I asked God to take special care of Mama. And I asked that he not make her forget all about me because I'd sure miss her every minute of my life. Somehow I fell asleep. I must have been dreaming a long time, but I could only remember two dreams when I woke up. Daddy woke me when he turned the key in the door lock of the squeaking door when he opened it to come in. I moved then from under Mama's casket to the other side of the room with my pillow and quilt. I wanted to think about my dreams.

In my first dream, Mama and I were climbing the big old tree in our front yard. Mama had always called it the Climbing Tree because one of its big limbs had grown and twisted around, bending almost to touch the ground. It was easy to climb up in the tree, and I'd done a lot of climbing when I was younger. In this first dream though, Mama and I both climbed up, but near the top, Mama disappeared. I panicked, and in the dream I did not know whether to go look for her or to climb back down the tree or just what I should do. The me in my dream started crying, and then I realized I was a lot younger than I am really, maybe more like four or five years old instead of fourteen. I cried and cried until I heard a voice.

Adam Piersall Wentworth of Jackson, Ohio, at your service, little Grace. I could see him clear as a bell. He looked the same in my dream as the picture of the sixteen-year-old Union soldier that I had seen so many times in our high school history book. I had written an essay about him for history class.

The four-year-old me in the dream asked, Where did Mama go? He took my hand in the dream and said that Mama would see me again later and that I could go up the climbing tree anytime I wanted. The dream ended just like that.

The second dream must have been right before I woke hearing Daddy's truck sound. In that dream, a flashing big star exploded in the sky and I watched it fall as it was sprinkling sparkling lights over the earth. In the dream, I even wished someone would tell me what the dream's message was for me. After I got fully awake, I decided the star represented Mama and that the star exploding was like dying and Mama's light going out. I could not figure out what the sparkling lights meant other than maybe I would be finding truth (or something precious like Mama was to me) in different places in the earth. Then, I thought awhile about holding her hand and going up the climbing tree with Mama, and then her disappearing, and Adam saying I can see her again. I cried until it was daylight. Then it was time to get ready for Mama's funeral.

Chapter Two

I don't know why nobody asked me to play piano for the three songs during Mama's funeral. Mr. Purdy from the First Baptist, our church song leader, played guitar and his wife, Marvalene, sang the songs. Preacher Ryal Atkins preached the service, but he didn't use one Bible verse that was Mama's favorite. Mama and I had gone to First Baptist Church as long as I could remember, so I knew the preacher knew what her favorite Bible verses were.

The flowers had almost filled the room, and my nose was running, and I was having trouble breathing because of the flower smells. And I wished I was playing the piano for the songs. Mama made sure I learned to play the piano when I was six years old, and she promised that no matter where we lived, I would always be the one to play in Sunday school. So I had played the piano in our church ever since I got good enough to; maybe I was about eight years old. Also, I played in church when Mrs. Ford was not there.

Everything started spinning in my head halfway through the second song, "We'll All Meet at the Jordan." The smell of flowers became so overpowering, I felt I was going to be sick. I never prayed so hard in my life. I asked Mama, Jesus, God, all the angels, and every saint whose name I could remember to please help me not to embarrass Mama and Daddy. Every time I looked at Daddy (sitting beside me), he looked as if he was sick too, so I knew I had to hold on. Grandma Phillips was sobbing through the whole service, and I almost wished I could cry out loud like that. But I couldn't. Tears just streamed down my face and I had no control over them at all, but without any sounds of sobbing. Mama's brothers cried out loud too.

Finally it was over. Everybody spoke their condolences to the family, and then the funeral home people took Mama's body to the Cordele Cemetery, and that's where we went next to bury her. That was very hard to watch. During the service I closed my eyes and remembered all the Saturdays Daddy took Mama and me to the ballpark to watch the Cordele Angels play baseball. When I was younger, I'd get bored and Daddy would whisper for me to go out to the cemetery and read the gravestones. Right in the middle of Mama's funeral, that's what I was thinking. I thought then I should have been ashamed to be thinking of that at a time my own mama was being put into the ground. But now I think it was probably good that I did.

Finally it was over and Daddy and I went home. Grandma was still in her organizing mode when she and Uncle Clark and Uncle Paul came in. However, in no time, people started bringing in platters and bowls of food and everybody was fixing their own plate and sitting around and talking about Mama and other sad times in their lives. But I don't remember Daddy sitting and talking. He just kept moving and checking on the ice and tea and the big pot of coffee in the kitchen.

"Here," Grandma would say, "please make yourself at home here and make sure you get some of that delicious cake for dessert." As for me, she kept on pushing one delicious thing after another into my hand and urging me to eat. "Come on, baby girl [that's what my Mama had called me], eat something now. You have to keep your strength up." So I'd smile and try a bite or two. I listened to everything about Mama that I could hear anyone saying as if I were gathering crumbs of memories and storing them away to think about later.

Finally, about dusk, everybody was leaving, including Grandma Phillips. She took me aside and explained how she and Daddy never liked each other and how they couldn't get along. That meant I could not go live with her and she could not go live with us. "I'm sorry, Gracie. I guess that leaves you and your daddy to take care of each other. All I can do is pray for you. Maybe someday when you're all grown up, you can come visit me in Atlanta." She and my mother's two brothers and their families left.

I stood in our front yard under the big old climbing tree with its limb twisted and curled around down to the ground instead of up toward the sky, and I watched their cars leave. I guess it was OK that I didn't say anything but "Yes, ma'am." All the time I was wondering how in the world my mama, Rose, who was warm and sweet and considerate of everybody's feelings, could have been Grandma's daughter. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my grandma and I knew she loved me, but like Mama used to say, "There are degrees of love." Mama always told me she loved me to the nth degree, and I always assumed that was a number way farther and deeper than any degree on earth.

Daddy didn't get my bed put back up in my room until a few days later. The night after the funeral, I spread a comforter on the floor in the place Mama's casket had been, and I finally cried out loud like everybody else had at the funeral. I wailed and boohooed like Grandma and others had done, and it did not make me feel any different than I was already feeling, and certainly not any better. When I heard the door slam, I knew Daddy had gone out again, so I bawled even louder. I must have gone to sleep after that.

Daddy woke me about daylight when the sun was just coming into my window. He stumbled against the back door, and he must have hit his head or caught his hand in the door, because I heard him fussing about repairing something. But he did not come by my room to let me know he was back. He just went into his bedroom on the other side of our house.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from THE CLIMBING TREEby Dolores Richardson Copyright © 2012 by Dolores Richardson. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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