. . . old times there are not forgotten.
I once had an American family, back when I was young. We were sons and daughters of the Old South. We are almost all gone now. Dust to dust.
Three generations, and we had names.
All dead now, save three. Diane, me and Marthalyn who is quite old, my father’s younger and only sister who never married.
Willie and Cap, the domestics. And Pepper the pooch. The cars in the southern end of the state were Fords, farther north Chevrolets. All made in Detroit.
The places had names like Sylvester, Red Rock, Albany, Marietta, Atlanta — and Jacksonville, our 10-year exile in Florida with the Yankees and Cubans.
We had crops like pecans, cotton, peanuts and corn. We had beasts called cattle. And, for a spell, chickens, lots and lots of chickens.
Especially in the southern end, we ate what we grew. Corn, string beans, beef, chicken, tomatoes and okra, which is good when battered and fried.
The roads in the southern end were red clay. Farther north they were paved. Down south we were farmers. Up north we were a number of things, including housing developers.
I gaze around me at times, and wonder how I ended up here.
Among sombreros and tacos.