when I called her and told her where I was going. “And what does she think you can do, Mouse?”
“I have no idea. But she said she might have some information about Virginia.”
“Well, I hope so. Richard’s on his way up to Oneonta now to see about his daddy. He wanted me to go with him and I said I had to take care of Fay and May.”
“Richardena, the twin’s nanny, is there, isn’t she?”
“Oh, sure. But Debbie’s coming home this afternoon with David Anthony. Can you believe having a baby one day and coming home the next?”
I could tell that Sister was shaking her head just likeI was shaking mine. Each of us had had the luxury of four or five days in the hospital when our children were born.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I need to prepare the twins for their little brother.”
I decided I didn’t want to know about these preparations. No two children had ever been better prepared for the birth of a sibling: Debbie and Henry had seen to that. So I told her I would call her when I got back and let her know what Betsy had to say.
There were still signs of Christmas everywhere, wreaths on doors, a few Santas still poised on roofs. Billboards still wished us HAPPY HOLIDAYS from banks or from the anchors of local TV stations, all smiles and red suits. In some homes, I knew, the trees would stay up, lighted. In February, they would be decorated with Easter eggs, biddies, and bunnies.
Christmas does not depart Birmingham quickly or for long. Maybe on the Fourth of July it takes a vacation long enough to watch the fireworks from Vulcan Park.
I went through downtown Birmingham, through Malfunction Junction where several interstates battle it out and where that day, miraculously, there wasn’t a wreck, past the airport exit and onto I-59 North. Traffic wasn’t heavy and, though clouds were coming in from the west, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the high fifties. It would rain later, turn cold the next day, and then warm up, the typical January weather pattern. It’s seldom that we have more than two nights consecutively when the temperature goes below freezing.
Midmorning, midweek, the interstates are a pleasure to drive, a pleasure that the citizens of Jefferson County and Birmingham didn’t have as soon as most large metropolitan areas. Jefferson County didn’t vote for GeorgeWallace for governor; the interstates came to the county line and stopped. There’s a slight chance that it was a coincidence, but where the interstates suddenly became two-lane roads in congested areas, we had what became known as the George Corley Wallace Memorial Bottlenecks. Fred and I would take the kids to visit his parents in Montgomery, an hour-and-a-half drive, and sit at the bottleneck on Highway 31 for an hour trying to get back into Birmingham. Not conducive to family harmony.
That morning there was no bottleneck, though. Nothing but the rolling Appalachians and the deep cuts through the limestone that forms them. Some of the views were breathtaking, and I realized how seldom I noticed them. But, of course, I was usually with Mary Alice.
The Springville exit overlooks a large farm-pond. A sign at the top of the exit pointed right and declared, FISHING, $2 A DAY . So far no one had paid the two dollars; the pond, shimmering in the January sunlight, was deserted. Several cows were in the pasture, though, some of them grazing, some lying down, a sure sign of rain within a few hours.
The entrance to Springville is much like the entrance into Steele, the same railroad track, the main street of business, the old houses. Springville is much closer to Birmingham, though, and has become one of its principal bedroom communities. Just beyond the main street, developments with names like McDonald’s Farms have sprung up for the young professionals who want the small-town life and don’t mind the commute to Birmingham.
I glanced at my watch. I was a few minutes early and thought I would sit at one of the
“I have no idea. But she said she might have some information about Virginia.”
“Well, I hope so. Richard’s on his way up to Oneonta now to see about his daddy. He wanted me to go with him and I said I had to take care of Fay and May.”
“Richardena, the twin’s nanny, is there, isn’t she?”
“Oh, sure. But Debbie’s coming home this afternoon with David Anthony. Can you believe having a baby one day and coming home the next?”
I could tell that Sister was shaking her head just likeI was shaking mine. Each of us had had the luxury of four or five days in the hospital when our children were born.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I need to prepare the twins for their little brother.”
I decided I didn’t want to know about these preparations. No two children had ever been better prepared for the birth of a sibling: Debbie and Henry had seen to that. So I told her I would call her when I got back and let her know what Betsy had to say.
There were still signs of Christmas everywhere, wreaths on doors, a few Santas still poised on roofs. Billboards still wished us HAPPY HOLIDAYS from banks or from the anchors of local TV stations, all smiles and red suits. In some homes, I knew, the trees would stay up, lighted. In February, they would be decorated with Easter eggs, biddies, and bunnies.
Christmas does not depart Birmingham quickly or for long. Maybe on the Fourth of July it takes a vacation long enough to watch the fireworks from Vulcan Park.
I went through downtown Birmingham, through Malfunction Junction where several interstates battle it out and where that day, miraculously, there wasn’t a wreck, past the airport exit and onto I-59 North. Traffic wasn’t heavy and, though clouds were coming in from the west, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the high fifties. It would rain later, turn cold the next day, and then warm up, the typical January weather pattern. It’s seldom that we have more than two nights consecutively when the temperature goes below freezing.
Midmorning, midweek, the interstates are a pleasure to drive, a pleasure that the citizens of Jefferson County and Birmingham didn’t have as soon as most large metropolitan areas. Jefferson County didn’t vote for GeorgeWallace for governor; the interstates came to the county line and stopped. There’s a slight chance that it was a coincidence, but where the interstates suddenly became two-lane roads in congested areas, we had what became known as the George Corley Wallace Memorial Bottlenecks. Fred and I would take the kids to visit his parents in Montgomery, an hour-and-a-half drive, and sit at the bottleneck on Highway 31 for an hour trying to get back into Birmingham. Not conducive to family harmony.
That morning there was no bottleneck, though. Nothing but the rolling Appalachians and the deep cuts through the limestone that forms them. Some of the views were breathtaking, and I realized how seldom I noticed them. But, of course, I was usually with Mary Alice.
The Springville exit overlooks a large farm-pond. A sign at the top of the exit pointed right and declared, FISHING, $2 A DAY . So far no one had paid the two dollars; the pond, shimmering in the January sunlight, was deserted. Several cows were in the pasture, though, some of them grazing, some lying down, a sure sign of rain within a few hours.
The entrance to Springville is much like the entrance into Steele, the same railroad track, the main street of business, the old houses. Springville is much closer to Birmingham, though, and has become one of its principal bedroom communities. Just beyond the main street, developments with names like McDonald’s Farms have sprung up for the young professionals who want the small-town life and don’t mind the commute to Birmingham.
I glanced at my watch. I was a few minutes early and thought I would sit at one of the
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