Maeburl Tincher
Springtime is a time for moving and planting.
In 1940, that is exactly what my family did – when we moved from U.S. Highway 129 over to a house on Anthony Branch Road.
The trek was only about two miles from where we lived to where we were going. The last mile consisted of a narrow, rocky road that had an abundance of mountain laurels overhanging along the path.
My little sister Bobby Jean and I rode in a horse-drawn sled. It was a very bumpy ride, but we were very excited to be moving.
I was especially happy when I saw our new home. It was a big, two-story, mission-style house, with a large tobacco barn and plenty of land. Daddy had agreed to sharecrop for the rent – which he did, until he went to work for the state.
He grew cane, tobacco and soybeans as field crops. He also grew plenty of garden vegetables for the table and for canning. We had plenty of food and plenty of room. Both the children and the chickens were suddenly able to be free rangers.
When Daddy went to work for the N.C. Department of Transportation, he would often come home tired and hungry – but eager to tell of the day’s events.
One evening, he arrived home to hear the news that I had got myself stuck on top of the tobacco barn and that dinner would have to wait.
Hungry and tired, he looked at me with complete frustration and said, “Well I guess you’ll have to roost up there with those d**n chickens!”
As a five-year-old I wanted to get a bird’s eye view of my world. I wanted to see what the chickens saw from the roof of that barn, but the chickens knew something I didn’t and that included how to get down.
I soon discovered that I would need wings and mine hadn’t sprouted.
The climb up was steep, and required sheer grit and determination. A tall corn crib was standing next to the barn. A row of buckets were nailed alongside the crib for the hens to nest in. I systematically made my way from the buckets to the crib to the roof.
Every foothold had purpose and every move was calculated – but once I straddled that pinnacle, I knew immediately I had made a terrible mistake and was in deep trouble.
The world was larger and the climb was higher than I had imagined. Even as a five-year-old, I knew life was at risk and my hind end was too.
I no longer cared about the birds, what they knew or how they knew it.
To no avail, Momma and my siblings tried to figure out how to get me out of this situation. Thank God for Daddy. His frustration was rightfully placed – but as all good fathers do, he made a way where there seemed to be no way.
In a short while my feet were planted firmly on the ground. I concluded that the chickens were welcome to come and go as they pleased.
But for me, foul play was for the birds.
Maeburl Tincher writes a monthly column for The Graham Star. She is a lifelong resident of Graham County.