Across the rippling creek and over the bridge with its rusty rails, I followed Mama, who was carrying a warm chocolate cake.
As any four-year-old would do, I stopped at the center of the bridge, admiring the lazy water bubbling toward the Chattahoochee.
“Little ‘un, c’mon,” Mama said over her shoulder. I ran to catch up. Within a couple of minutes, we arrived at our destination: a tiny shack with a …