Daffodils are a surefire sign that the doldrums of winter are getting the boot. Their shoots have been known to spring to the surface around here as early as January and as late as March, and right now, they are in full bloom. Butter and eggs, trumpets, miniatures - innumerable varieties, but the first to show are simple, old-fashioned jonquils. 

The day is picture-perfect. Wisps of creamy clouds stroke a cerulean sky. A red-tailed hawk cries out as it soars overhead. For the first time in a long time, I just drive. I wind along backroads, through coves bearing family names. Meadows tucked against the backside of a mountain, aptly named Pleasant Valley. Cows stand sentry in pastures, lowling back and forth to each other.  The radio plays songs that comforted me during my college years. I sing along and appreciate the bright spring day and the daffodils. 

Backroads crack a window to the past. Simpler times. The daffodils stand out. They paint the lawns of weary, vacant houses - grayed clapboard dogtrots and square farmhouses. They line driveways, cluster beside rusted out square-bodied trucks, and encircle lonesome rock chimneys.

Near the creek bottoms, there’s a place where daffodils sprout through a lusterless, gray bed of pestiferous kudzu. At any other time of year, this plot of land appears nondescript. Not today. As I approach, I tap the truck brakes, creep to a near halt at the edge of the road, and gaze at the patch of sunshine. Secrets lie beneath the kudzu.

A home. Whose hands planted these flowers? Newlyweds built their new home and just began a journey. A white-haired lady tended her garden. A child plucking flowers for his mother. Redolent blossoms gathered in vase and to adorn the center of a Sunday supper table. The aroma of home cooked meals wafted through the air, as smoke curled above a chimney. Stones stacked and cemented together one by one. 

A spring zephyr ripples through the open truck window, and I can almost hear voices from long ago. Laughter, prayers, and tears echo across the years. Life happened here. Although the house and people are gone, the daffodils remain. They remember. 

I slip the truck back into gear and amble along, mindful of the ever present potholes. Who knows when the county last paved these roads? The families living along them could care less, and do not crave the disturbance of heavy machinery. Out here, only thirty minutes from the city, it feels like I am ten million miles away. I like it that way, and so do the cows. The air is fresher; the earth is cleaner. 

Before March is over, the blossoms will wither. Their foliage will remain green for a few more weeks, fade to brown, then fall away. The bulbs will slumber through summer, fall, and winter. Then, the first warm rains and sunny days sweep back winter’s drapes. The trumpets of spring sound their fanfare. Sunshine will again dapple the Earth and crack a window to the past. 

I’m going to tell you about the Shoe Tree in Cherokee, Alabama, but not like I was writing about some peculiar attraction along U.S. Highway 72. You can Google it; in fact, Google identifies the Shoe Tree as a “historical landmark.” Interesting. No, I will tell you the story like I told a group of 5th and 6th graders (and one enraptured 4th grader) sitting in our classroom library. Tucked in the corner of our classroom, bathed in sunlight from two windows looking over the playground and budding spring foliage, where they learned about the Mississippi Territory and the Southwest Frontier. 

It always amazes me that United States History units written for elementary students leave out the expansion of the southern frontier. There’s a plethora of information about the aftermath of the French and Indian War in the northern and Midwest territories, the Oregon Trail, the California Gold Rush, and such. Sure, there’s the Louisiana Purchase, but little about the Mississippi Territory is told. Migration here affected vast numbers of Indigenous peoples who were considered part of the Five Civilized Tribes—the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Muscogee (Creek).

Construction of the post road, now known as the Natchez Trace, traipsed straight through Choctaw and Chickasaw homelands.  The Federal Road in modern-day Alabama played an integral role in creating a rift in the Muscogee Nation that led to what history calls the Creek Civil War and fueled the fire that was the War of 1812. The emergence of the Mississippi Territory ultimately led to the Indian Removal Act and the devastation of the great injustices of the Trail of Tears. 

On this particular day, I taught a map lesson to locate the Natchez Trace and the Federal Road. I split the class into two groups for history—5th and 6th graders together; 4th grade had their own separate lesson. The division of two groups was born from necessity. First, there were more children in 4th grade. Second, the 5th and 6th graders had a greater understanding of history and the attention span for more detailed lessons. As a teacher, you have to read the room. Know your audience. 

With a map laid out before me, I explained how to get to the Natchez Trace. Only one of my students had ever been to the Trace. “You get on U.S. 72,” I said. “You remember how we got to Nature’s Classroom?” Of course, they remembered. “Well, it’s in the opposite direction. You go west…” 

Just before the Mississippi State Line, there’s a bridge and an onramp to access the Natchez Trace Parkway, but before that, alongside the highway, on the right-hand side, there’s a shoe filled with trees. It’s an old sycamore tree. Hundreds of trees hang from its boughs and the brush below, some scattered on the ground. People go to the Shoe Tree and throw a pair of shoes up into the branches whenever a significant event occurs. An accomplishment. The fulfillment of an ambition. Or a “letting go”. 

My mother was the first person in our family to visit the Shoe Tree. In September 2010, she threw her work shoes into the tree to celebrate her retirement. Seven years later, she and I returned to the Shoe Tree with my grandmother’s tennis shoes. My grandmother had just passed away a few weeks prior. We wrote messages on my grandmother’s shoes—I love yous, our names, words we wanted to say to her. Then we tossed her shoes as high as we could. Silly? Maybe. Cathartic? Absolutely.

I went back to the Shoe Tree last summer. Right there on the side of the road before you get to the Natchez Trace Parkway. You see, I’d written a short story about the Natchez Trace and submitted it to the anthology Feisty Deeds: Historical Fictions of Daring Women. I had just been notified that the anthology would include my story. 

I chose a good pair of shoes—Yellow Box flip-flops, punctured with lovely chew marks from my cat, Frank. He passed away in June 2022, on National Hug Your Cat Day. My kitty boy had great timing. My mother and I drove all the way out to Cherokee. I tied my flip-flops together and chucked them as high as my 5-foot 2-inch height would allow, and then we drove home.

Since then, my life has been filled with other occasions, but the Shoe Tree is a special place made for those standout, freeing moments. I plan to return someday with another pair of shoes—who knows what they’ll be? But I hope the next time I visit the Shoe Tree, it will be to honor another publication. Maybe that next publication will be one of my books. 

Fourteen years ago, two puppies were found abandoned in an apartment complex in North Alabama. Someone had taken their mama and left them to fend for themselves.

The maid who cleaned the apartments, readying them for the next occupants, found the puppies—sisters. One was the color of caramel, and the other was white with dark spots and brindle ears.  All wriggling fur and sweet puppy breath the day she joined our family, her name already picked out–Dixie Belle. 

She rocked our world, came in with all her doggy-girl personality, and shook up a house of cats. Ricky Kitty is the only one who likes her and still loves her. She used to take his whole head into her mouth, then she’d grab him by the nape of the neck and drag him across the floor. We were told that Ricky Kitty displayed pleasing behaviors to Dixie. He has the patience of a saint and is more tolerant than any animal I’ve met. 

Welcoming a ten-week-old puppy into our house was like taking in a baby Tyrannosaurus Rex. Dixie ate our country green and cream striped Broyhill sofa. She cut teeth on the baseboard between the hallway and the kitchen. 

The baseboard still bears those war wounds; I doubt we will ever change it. Our house has never been pristine. The cats, dogs, and children were too busy making memories. 

Dixie is as cute as a button. She looks a lot like Spottie Dottie Dog from Hello Kitty. Our best guess is that she’s a mix of American bulldog, chow, and Dalmatian. Quite the cocktail mixture of breeds. 

Dixie lives with anxiety and reactivity. She does not play well with others. That part of her personality didn’t show up until she was six months old. I’ve failed her so many times, not having a clue how to raise a dog with such needs. I’m pretty sure she thought I was inadequate on multiple occasions.

We’ve been to dog behavior therapists and tried all-natural calming techniques, training, and everything imaginable. She loves people and Ricky Kitty, but when it comes to other dogs, Dixie does not play well with others. 

Dixie is smart as a whip. That first summer, she mastered many commands. Years later, when an ear infection left her hard of hearing, Dixie continued to learn. She understands sign language and will gladly “speak” for her bedtime cookies. She used to destroy toys. Any stuffed animal within her reach was deemed “dead before sunset.” She never played fetch, that was beneath her, but a lively game of tug-of-war was just her speed. 

Dixie forms everlasting bonds with her people. She loves moseying along back roads, trips to the “magic ice cream window” (aka Bruster’s), and her favorite kid. She recognizes all of us and greets us with unconditional love (except when she deems us inadequate). I’m telling you, she’s smarter than I am most days. 

At fourteen years old, she’s not quite as spry. Arthritis riddles her back legs and hips. She doesn’t destroy toys anymore. Instead, Mike Wazowski and Mr. Gator are her cuddly buddies. She still tolerates Ricky Kitty, and in her old age, has even extended her patience to a new kitty–Paddy Cake. She spends most of her time in our bedroom, poised at her lookout, not barking quite as much at the mailman. Bumblebees are bobbing around the hardy hibiscus outside the bay window right now. I can tell when they catch her eye because she perks up. 

Dixie is my writing buddy. My assistant who never judges but often snores and sometimes burps. I love her to the moon and back. She’s taught me a lot about life and myself. She has helped me heal and is part of what makes our house a home. Rose the Nose. Our first doggy girl. Dixie Belle.

A Shell gas station sits at the corner of US 31 and Wilson Street (Alternate US 27) in Decatur, Alabama. On an April evening in 2006, my husband and I waited at that gas station to meet a man selling his truck. A 2003 Chevy S-10 ZR2. That was back when you found vehicles in the old Thrifty Nickel newspapers. Ads upon ads for cars, furniture, apartments, and you-name-its. My husband found the listing for this truck, and we drove to Decatur to look at it.

When that bright yellow truck pulled into the parking lot, the Shell sign was the only yellow competing with it. “I’m going to buy that truck,” my husband exclaimed with a breath of wonder. He did, and he called that truck Ol’ Yellar. 

Three months later, we drove away from our wedding in that truck. Car chalk on the back glass exclaimed, "Got 'er done!" (Larry the Cable Guy and the Blue Collar Comedy Tour were a big deal in 2006.) Our little nephew felt like “big stuff” riding in the passenger seat. It only had one of those tiny third seats in the back that aren’t fit to hold a human being. We’d turn off the airbag and put the booster seat on the passenger side. Our Goddaughter used to watch our reflection in shop windows, shouting “Nanner! Nanner!” because, well…the truck looked like a banana. 

Ol’ Yellar and I have had a love-hate relationship for years. It got to a point where I thought more about a lemon than a banana when I looked at it. Something went wrong at least once a year. At least. It was often multiple times a year. Fixing that truck was like putting a Band-Aid on the Titanic. 

The transmission was rebuilt for $1,400 because my husband got carried away with mud riding. When the man from the dealership asked me if the transmission had been submerged in water, I responded, “You tell me. Has it?” Least to say, I was none too happy with that bill. 

Ol’ Yellar slowed down over the years and spent a good bit of time in the garage. For a while, it didn’t start. There was a chance it was time to put Ol’ Yellar out to pasture—or in a junkyard. For a while, when you started it, bluish-gray smoke billowed out from beneath it, effectively eliminating every mosquito within a ten-mile radius. But, our little Goddaughter grew up and began classes to become an automotive mechanic. She and my husband waited until I was out of town to sneak into the garage and revive the Ol’ Yellar truck. They succeeded. The darn thing runs. Again. 

A few weeks ago, Ol’ Yellar got out on the highway. We were on our way to the church for my husband’s grandmother’s funeral. She passed away peacefully in her home, surrounded by her family. It was the week of my husband's birthday—his first birthday without his granny. Thanks to their hard work, and more than a few miracles, Ol’ Yellar took them to the funeral and drove in the procession. I rode behind them for a few reasons. One, it was over 80 degrees on the last day of October. Ol’ Yellar's air conditioning is called 55 mph with the windows down (if you get my drift). Second...Did I mention that third seat is not big enough to fit any human? Three, if I rode with them, I couldn’t watch them. 

I would’ve missed watching two pieces of my heart—my husband and Goddaughter—taking the last drive to honor his grandmother and her great-grandmother. I wanted to see them together with the windows down. And with her hand out the window, my Goddaughter made waves in the air as autumn leaves danced around Ol’ Yellar. 

An old slip of paper fell out of my car’s glove box when I was rifling through the many mechanic maintenance receipts, empty envelopes, and tag registrations from years past. My glove box is a mess. It holds anything and everything other than what glove boxes were invented to hold. According to the AAA website, one of Britain’s first female race car drivers came up with the idea that led to this handy little hide-all. What she thought to be “...the secret of the dainty motorist.” is a disaster area in my car.

Anyhow, when I got in the car to go to the grocery store yesterday, the paper caught my eye. It was torn from a notepad at a Hampton Inn years ago. Typed on the bottom of the paper are the words “thought pad,” and written on the page (upside down) are the words “What’s little and orange? And is like a tornado? Frank.” Now, it’s not grammatically correct, and I don’t know how she came up with the riddle or even wrote it down, but it’s my grandmother’s handwriting. At some point, my grandmother wrote a riddle about my cat, Frank. 

I picked the paper up and read it, a soft, bittersweet smile tugging at my mouth. My grandma passed away in November 2017, and Frank crossed the Rainbow Bridge in June 2021.  I’m a sentimentalist, a thinker rooted deep in emotion. Sometimes, those parts of me get in the way of writing. I overthink. I get attached to characters and storylines and settings. A moment as simple as finding an old slip of paper from a Hampton Inn with my grandma’s handwriting on it warms my heart and brings tears to my eyes at the same time because I by no means believe I found that paper yesterday by coincidence. 

Today is New Year’s Eve. I planned to write a grandiose post about this year’s accomplishments. Yesterday changed my plans. As I drove to the grocery store, words, phrases, and sentences wove a tapestry in my mind. I do my best thinking while driving. As anyone who’s met me knows, my short story was published in the Feisty Deeds Anthology this year. All the days of tap-writing, revising, and editing “Tracing the Spirit” paid off. I wrote that story at a time when I had hit a wall with my novel. I argued with myself, considering abandoning the manuscript altogether. So, the news that my short story would be published hit me like fireworks. 

I first called my mother to tell her that my story—all 3,000 words—would be published. Next, I cried because I couldn’t tell my grandma. I’m not a religious person, but I am spiritual and sentimental. So somehow, finding a slip of paper torn from a Hampton Inn "thought pad" with my grandma’s handwriting on it means something. It fills up my soul, tracing a path straight to my spirit. A link to my past, my family, and my very own little orange tornado. Frank. 

Happy New Year’s Eve. I hope yours is blessed with memories of days of auld lang syne and everyone you hold dear. 

Summer is my favorite time of the year. Time slows down. I sip my coffee at leisure, have more writing time than the other ten months of the year, and take weekly trips to the farmers market. 

Whatever I find at the farmers market determines our dinner menu. Yellow squash and sweet onions sauteed in butter. Boiled new potatoes and green beans bathed in butter. Corn—fried, creamed, or just eaten off the cob. The fine delicacy of lady peas. Fried okra and green tomatoes. Fresh sliced tomatoes. Cucumbers sprinkled with salt and maybe a little bit of black pepper. Summer brings in a plentiful harvest. 

Over Mother’s Day dinner, my mother-in-law surprised me with a lighthearted recollection. “Remember that time your grandma stole cucumbers?” she asked. 

I kind of squinted and shook my head. To which my husband jogged my memory. My grandma passed away in 2017, and over the years I’d completely forgotten that story, forgotten telling it to my mother-in-law. 

My grandma loved cucumbers. When I was a little girl, we’d wait for that first cucumber out of the garden, pull it off the vine, take it into her sunshine yellow kitchen, peel it and cut it into wedges, and eat it with just salt sprinkled on top. 

 A wrought iron glider sat on the far side of my grandparent’s carport. By the time my sister and I came along we didn’t park cars under the carport. That space was for the grill, some of our outside toys, and wrought iron patio furniture. The kind that leaves red criss-cross diamond shapes on the backs of your legs. 

I don’t remember how old I was, but I have vivid memories of cucumbers not even making it into the kitchen. Grandma took a plate, paring knife, and salt shaker out to the carport. We’d sit on that wrought iron glider, swaying back and forth, as she peeled and cut cucumbers for us to eat with salt. 

Every time I have a cucumber—I can taste it now—that simple, precious childhood memory rises to the surface, and I smile. Albeit, my eyes burn just a little; I miss her so very much. 

The incident my mother-in-law recalled with a chuckle happened many years later, not too long before my grandma passed away. Because of her medicine, Grandma’s water intake had to be regulated. She wasn’t supposed to have too many cucumbers, but she wanted them so bad. My sister had just harvested several cucumbers from her garden. We ate some with a summer vegetable supper, then Grandma pilfered the rest. Took them right off the kitchen counter and stuffed them in her purse. She still loved cucumbers. I still love them. Just as much as I did when we ate them on the carport, with nothing but salt. 

When I was a little girl, my family and I traveled on U.S. Highway 72 on a daily basis. I had the longest commute to school out of any of my friends, awakening before the first crack of daylight showed on the horizon and arriving home almost as the sun slipped away. On those long drives, I learned to await the redbuds’ appearance along the North Sauty backwaters.

 A cold snap descends upon the south just before the redbuds bloom. One of the first flowering trees in this part of the country, with buds more purple than red. They bloom shortly before the mud hens disappear. That was when my grandmother would proclaim that the last fierce, cold weather of the season was over.

Against a slate-colored sky, it looks like someone has turned on a spotlight as they cast a brilliant glow on misty mornings. Eastern redbuds are native to this part of the country. Their slender, arching branches create bursts of color among greening brush, evergreen pines, and deciduous trees that have yet to leaf out. The blossoms call to swallowtail butterflies and honey bees. White-tailed deer munch on their lush foliage. They are part of the great revival of life, the waking of the earth, and deliverance from winter’s slumber.

The Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) dammed the Tennessee River in the 1930s and built gigantic hydropower dams. Construction provided employment during the Great Depression, and the dams still meet the needs of the growing population to this day. The expanse of water reached beyond the original river banks. Backwaters engulfed once-upon-a-time towns and used-to-be farmland. The Tennessee River bled into North Sauty Creek; to the casual passerby, they looked like the same entity of water. But, before modern man made his mark in the vicinity of the North Sauty backwaters, geology, history, and biology told their stories. 

My great-aunt bought me a book about Jackson County’s history in 1999. She bought the book from Mary and Martha’s Gift Shop in Scottsboro. Mary and Martha’s Gift Shop isn’t there anymore, but I still have the book, marked with love and a personal note; the beginning of my nurtured hunger for the history of family, people, and place. The book is called A Pictorial Walk Thru Ol’ High Jackson. It is a Limited Centennial Edition. My great-aunt nurtured my hunger for the history of family and place. The beginning of the book tells about Sauta Cave, the village of Sauta, and all the people who have passed through this land - those who revered it and those who claimed it for their own. 

Sauta Cave is home to two endangered bat species —Gray and Indiana. My mother remembers watching the bats fly while driving along U.S. 72 on balmy summer evenings. Whole slews emerged from the cave, descending upon unsuspecting insects along the North Sauty Backwaters. The cave is closed to the public now. It has been a wildlife refuge since the 1970s, kept wild, allowing the vast biodiversity to flourish with little human interference. 

Sauta was a Cherokee village located at the confluence of the Tennessee River and North Sauty Creek. Sequoyah shared his ideas for the Cherokee Syllabary at Sauta in an attempt to assimilate to encroaching white society. Sequoyah’s syllabary was used to print articles in the Cherokee Phoenix newspaper; in fact, an article in the newspaper regaled the story of the alphabet’s creation and connection to Sauta.

As a girl, I did not give much thought to biodiversity or dams, nor did I know about Sequoyah or Sauta. But I remembered to anticipate the redbuds. Now, miles away, they grow just as wild at the edge of my yard. With my morning coffee cradled between my palms, I sit on my front porch or gaze outside the living room windows and appreciate their vibrant presence. The flowers will fade and give way to verdant leaves, part of the steady cycle of the seasons. But no matter where I am, my favorite first place to see redbuds will always be along the North Sauty backwaters. 

My senior year in high school found me driving along Alabama backroads simply because I wanted to see where they went. Sunday drives were reserved for “getting lost” with my best friend, armed only with the knowledge that even-numbered roads ran east to west, odd ran north to south, and a 1989 Rand McNally.

It was Easter Sunday. The only open gas station was the Shell on AL 67—a road we had crossed many times. But, we wanted to see what was at the other end. So we fueled up and headed south. 

My first car was a 1990 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais. Stardust metallic blue, shimmering in the sunlight. Navy interior. Cornflower dash lights. My mother bought her when I was eight years old, and as an avid Sleep Beauty fan, I named the car Merriweather. When my twin sister and I turned sixteen, Merriweather was to be ours, but Merriweather was a 5-speed. My sister did not master shifting gears. I did. Oh, did I ever. The balancing act, listening to the engine strain and groan. I can still hear it, feel the gear shift beneath my fingertips, my feet dancing between the clutch, brake, and gas pedals. It felt like flying.

With a full tank of gas, we flew to the southern end of AL 67 only to find US 231. Ha! A road we traveled all the time. You see, this was April 2001. GPS did not exist. Thank Heavens; it would have stifled our freedom, the thrill of adventure, and the simplicity of discovery. At the end of the road, we faced a decision—turn left and go back to Huntsville? Nope. Turn right and see what lay ahead? Yes. 

The road climbs out of Blountsville, meanders, and dips along the Cumberland Plateau. Farmland dotted by homes, gardens, mom-and-pop businesses, and restaurants. We came upon a brown road sign that read, “Covered Bridge.” Without hesitation, I knocked the gear shift in neutral, slowed, and shifted into second, making that right-hand turn for the first time. 

We drove down a county road riddled with potholes, crossed what might as well have been called a footbridge, sloped downward, and made a sharp turn right. The point of no return. Before us, a covered bridge yawned, wide, dark, and long. Grayish blue tin covered most of the latticework on the sides. Triangles of light flecked the tunnel. The lettering above the mouth said, “Swann Bridge Built in 1933.” The bridge creaked and murmured a hymn as we crossed all 324 feet, straddling the Locust Fork of the Warrior River. Of course, I did not know any of this back then. I learned those facts years later through research, along with the fact that it is sometimes called the Swann-Joy Covered Bridge.

Swann-Joy. The name spoke to me. When I left that day, turning around at the tip-top of the hill behind the bridge, I knew I would return. And I have many times. I cooled myself in the river in the bridge’s shadow and picnicked. I laughed with my friends and family. The sun-warmed boulders became a place of solace. I listened to the river gurgle over the riffles or rush after a spring rain. I breathed in the odor of fish, algae, and fresh air. And always, as with that first day, topped off each trip with a milkshake from Jack’s in Blountsville. 

 The bridge is closed to motor traffic now. Sometimes, I go by myself. I walk through the tunnel, relishing the familiar scents of moisture, polyurethane, and years gone by. I hear the timeless river unyielding on her neverending course. In broken moments, peace envelopes me, and I become whole again. It is the place I feel closest to nature and the vast, sacred unknown. And somehow, when I cross the Swann-Joy Covered Bridge, I am the best version of myself. The wide-eyed teenage girl, seeking adventure, exuberant, and searching for what’s around the next curve in the road. 

What qualifies as a small town? One traffic light or a single four-way stop? A courthouse square filled with the nostalgia of yesteryear? 

I always thought I grew up in a small southern town. Two grocery stores dotted the highway, but the heart of town laid beyond the exits, surrounded by neighborhoods. True neighborhoods, not of the cookie-cutter variety. Back when houses had character and yards had climbing trees that arched high, reaching towards the blue expanse above.  When I was growing up, my hometown was a small town. But yesterday, as I drove through with Goddaughter, I couldn’t help but question if my hometown still holds on to its unique charm and qualifies as “small” anymore. 

As I drove along the four-lane highway, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the past and present. Chain businesses now dominate the land that my great-grandparents once sharecropped. A new Publix stands along Backbone Ridge. A massive car dealership replaced the smaller shops I remember from my childhood. I used to know the men who ran the garage. I didn’t even have to honk when I drove up for a $19.95 oil change. They recognized me and my 1990 Oldsmobile and opened the door for us. But in chain businesses, people don’t recognize you the same way. 

I wondered what my grandfather thought when they put in the Wendy’s and Food World that seemed standard in my childhood. They had not been there when he rode the train in from the countryside in the 1930s and 40s. Back then, it was farmland and trees—not concrete, asphalt, brick, and steel. Progress can’t be held back any more than rushing floodwaters, but sometimes, when I pause to look around and remember, it’s like drowning memories.

A different family now calls the house I grew up in “ home.” Everyone I knew has either moved away or passed on. But when I drive past, I can still see my sister and me riding our bikes down the street. I remember the sight of our cars parked in the driveway, the playhouse that used to stand beneath the silver poplar in the backyard, and the sweet taste of the honeysuckle that grew along the back fence. 

Being back in my hometown in the late evening stirs a wistfulness within me that isn’t present in the light of day. Especially when a train rumbles through town, and the whistle echoes through the foothills like it has for over a hundred years. The hubbub out on the highway fades, and the heart of town is quiet, save for the few people dining at the restaurant on the square. Shadows cast long as the sun slips below the backwaters. There’s a deep sense of security in the simplicity of these moments, when I can look around and picture all those yesteryears at home that remain quite perfect and unchanged in my mind. 

A few weeks ago, the judges on American Idol flubbed the name of a small Alabama town. The video’s on the internet—social media sites and whatnot—in case you haven’t seen it. The town? Oneonta. 

Now, I got tickled at their attempts, but I could not sit in judgement. I’ve mispronounced more than a few town names (and various words) in my time. Who hasn’t? But, what got me was that Oneonta is not some unique, Southern name that only the locals know how to pronounce correctly. Its origin is actually…wait for it…Northern. Gasp! 

I discovered this fact years ago on some research binge, probably for my no-longer-desk-drawer novel manuscript. Writers (and teachers) love research, maybe more than most people. Research takes us down rabbit holes that we never could’ve imagined. 

Anyhow, Oneonta, Alabama, was named after Oneonta, New York. The story I know is that one of the early settlers (or railroad tycoons) living in that area of Alabama was from Oneonta, New York; he wanted to name this “new town” after his hometown. Many websites will tell you that Oneonta is a Native American word that means “place of the open rocks.” I’ll go with that fact because it’s confirmed by more than Wikipedia or AI. 

If you ever go to Oneonta, Alabama, you’ll find an awkward traffic light intersection at US 231 and AL 75, the Horton Mill Covered Bridge (the seventh tallest covered bridge suspended over water in the whole world) just outside of town, the old L&N Depot, Annual Covered Bridge Festival, and the Blount County Memorial Museum & Historical Society. I haven’t visited since they moved to the new location, but I spent hours there for research. I’m a writer. I can’t resist going down a good rabbit hole. 

So, there you have it. The small Alabama town whose name tripped up three American Idol judges is originally from New York—just like pimento cheese. 

Alabama state road 5 originates in the community of Woodstock. There’s not much there except I-20, gas stations, and like any middle-of-nowhere place in our state, a Jack’s restaurant. That’s where I bought the French fries and chocolate milkshake to suffice my hunger until I made it to my 100th Day of the Year destination—Thomasville, Alabama. 

When I told people where I was headed on April 10th, they all answered with the same question: “Why?” Some took it one step further. “What’s there?” Well, not much. But, it’s the hometown of beloved Alabama storyteller Kathryn Tucker Windham.

I first learned about Kathryn Tucker Windham when I was in college. She told stories at the Annual Storytelling Festival in Athens. I wanted to go to the festival and hear her speak but I never made it. She passed away a few short years later, and I never gave her stories much thought until the Alabama Bicentennial in 2019. A few children in my classroom researched Mrs. Windham for a famous Alabamians project. National Public Radio (NPR) replayed her stories from time to time. I found those replays and let the children listen to them after recess.

The first story of hers I remember hearing is the one about the red scooter her father bought her for Christmas. How he called a store up in Selma and had it brought down on the train and let her ride it round the Methodist Church that night. That story stuck with me for years. So sweet, simple, and innocent. It made me smile. 

Over the years, I found more recordings of her stories. Ghost stories. Memories of growing up years. Listening to her Southern drawl weave pictures of yesteryear was a gift. Reprieve from this fast-paced, tumultuous world. 

After a ride down Alabama-5 that I felt would never end, I parked at the edge of town, walked to Kingdom Grounds Coffee Shop, and ate a chicken salad sandwich and a bag of Golden Flake dill pickle potato chips. They are the superior dill pickle potato chips. I lingered in the library, reading each sign beside displays of the town’s history—old newspapers, photographs, cash registers, businesses. Places and people I recognized because they’d come alive in Kathryn Tucker Windham’s stories. 

I left the library and strolled up and down the street. Sam Cooke’s voice floated through the air, crooning about being sent and thrilled and in love. The music came from Zeke’s Antique Station.  A 1930s Sinclair Gas Station turned into an antiques store. Inside, I found a Manhattan Depression Glass sugar bowl and creamer set. Perfect. I collect Depression Glass sugar bowls and creamers for my coffee station at home. 

As the lady at the counter rang up my sale, I admitted, “I have an odd question.”

“Yes?” she replied. 

“I’m a teacher and a writer. Well, I came here because I love Kathryn Tucker Windham’s stories. Do you know where her childhood home was?” Frankly, I’m used to asking strange questions. That comes with the territory of being a writer. 

She gladly pointed out the spot just over the hill, across the railroad tracks. Then she told me that her husband was the mayor. She’d give him a call and get him to come talk to me. And…I met the mayor of Thomasville, Alabama. A kind, smiling man showed me the location of Kathryn Tucker Windham’s childhood home and the building that had been her daddy’s bank. 

“When she talks about sitting on the steps of daddy’s bank.” He motioned to a brick building down the street. “That’s it right there. And their house sat up on the hill across the railroad tracks.” 

He told me a story about her cousin, Earl Tucker, the newspaper editor and a state representative who got into a heated disagreement with another “character” in town. How the man went home to get his pistol, and the townspeople locked Earl in the vault at the bank to keep him safe. 

I nodded, grinning. “That’s a good story.” 

Earl Tucker wrote a column called Rambling Roses and Flying Bricks in the Thomasville Times for years; it was published all over the state. There’s a mural painted on the side of a building across from the newspaper office. Earl Tucker’s likeness is depicted as a man against the corner of the building with a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. Roses climb the wall. Bricks with wings fly up around him. 

Such good stories. Simple and true. I could’ve lingered longer. I liked standing there on the sidewalk, picturing bygone days, and appreciating the slowness that still exists in this Story Town.