Skip to main content

Rebecca Jane and Willie Smith

 


Rebecca Jane and Willie Smith

Chapter One

Brother and sister Willie and Rebecca Jane Smith carefully walked down the rocky path to the bottom of the ravine.

To catch his breath, Willie sat down in the tattered old wicker chair under a Vitex tree. It was a cool, shady spot where a wide, deep, pond formed at the base of a small waterfall.

Rebecca Jane said, “Whew! I love to take a walk but that was a longer hike than I expected.

They paused for a few minutes listening to the sound of rushing water and feeling the mist on their faces. They rested there.

Willie tilted his head to one side. He said, “I’m not sure but I think I hear the sound of a banjo playing in the distance.”

Rebecca said, “That’s funny, brother. I was just thinking that I smell food cooking. Get up! Let’s investigate!”

They hiked down the mountainside to a dirt road. No cars were driving by but they stayed along the edge and safely walked single-file. Rebecca was in the lead.


Chapter Two

As they walked along, more people joined them, heading in the same direction. They saw a sign and stopped to read it.

The sign said -- TODAY ONLY! Blue Grass Music Festival.

Willie said, “We are so lucky to find this special place. I didn’t know that grass could be blue.”

“Like jazz music and rock music, blue grass is a type of music,” said Rebecca Jane.

A man dressed up in a nice suit, with a flower pinned on it, was sitting on a wooden stool next to his banjo. It looked like a small, round, guitar with silver metal screws.

Just as the music began, the brother and sister found a spot in the shade to sit on the ground. They were happy and couldn’t stop smiling.

Willie noticed that his foot was tapping to the rhythm. People began to dance and Rebecca joined them. She said, “I know your favorite color is green but blue grass is my favorite kind of music.




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Genealogy: it’s about connection

Each one of us has two parents, four grandparents, and eight great-grandparents. For every generation you go back, the number of people who procreated, to eventually make you, doubles. When I first started out on my genealogy journey, these numbers astounded me, and still do. I love to think about my DNA stew. It feeds my soul. Playing with numbers Let’s assume each generation makes a baby at age thirty. Perhaps the age should be 16, 18, 20, or 25, but whatever, I picked 30 for this exercise. After all, in the past, people started having children earlier than today, but they also bore many more children and did so over a period of 10, or even 20, years. Stick with me for this simplified and fictional example: For a child born in 1960, there were two parents who were born about 1930. The baby’s four grandparents were born about 1900. The baby’s eight great-grandparents were born in 1870. (You see, I'm doubling the number of grandparents and going back 30 years at the same time....

Personal history

Our son Sammy and daughter-in-law Katie gave me a handful of vintage photographs of unknown people for Christmas this year. They came with this note “We hope these snapshots prove inspiring for your work.” They are. Found photo of unidentified family I’ve been known to stand for hours at flea market stalls and silently flip through boxes and boxes of old photos. What am I looking for? I don’t know. Well, yes, I guess I do. It’s connection. When I was 10, our parents divorced. My brother, sister, and I called it “the war.”  Before the war, with three of us kids at home, our household was bustling. We lived on Summer Street in Royersford where our many friends were just next door. I can still hear the venetian blinds on the front door clang as it was opened and closed a hundred times a day. After the war, it was devastatingly quiet. I was alone much of the time. I can see now exactly what I did about it. I became exceedingly charming, ridiculously helpful...

A time of beginnings

Perhaps 15 years ago or so, we created a Moon Garden at our Coventryville house and it turned out pretty cool. The structure of the garden was native black granite boulders surrounded by white gravel paths.   We planted it with annuals and perennials with gray, silver, or pale green foliage and fragrant white flowers. Here and there we allowed some purple. A Moon Garden is designed to be enjoyed in the evening and on moonlit nights. It was a labor of love. Over several years, our family had suffered much loss: our nephews Michael and Matt, Steve’s mother, my stepfather Will, and my Mom. Chairs at our holiday tables went from a bustling many to a quiet few.   The Moon Garden felt perfect for that time of our lives -- a quiet spot to reflect, heal heavy losses, and soothe jangled nerves. At night the garden glowed. But now doesn’t feel like a time of endings. Steve and I are settled in our retirement routines. It’s been three years since we left the corporate world....