Across the rippling creek and over a bridge with rusty rails, I followed Mama, who was carrying a warm chocolate cake.
Like any four-year-old, I stopped at the center of the bridge, watching the lazy water bubble toward the Chattahoochee.
“Little ‘un, c’mon,” Mama called over her shoulder. I ran to catch up.
Within a couple of minutes, we reached our destination: a small shack with a porch that sagged with age and ceilings so low I was certain that within a year I could reach them with the fingertips of an outstretched hand. A musty smell, mingled with the scent of rotting wood, hung in the air.
The humble home of the Westmorelands was not my first encounter with poverty.
My parents were from the mountains, and both had grown up in similar conditions. My grandparents still lived that way.
Even as a toddler, I understood there was something solemn about the visit. Mama and Mrs. Westmoreland spoke softly, sadness in their voices. In another room, a grandmother lay dying, her final breaths carrying her toward eternity. Back then, there were no nursing homes. Families took in their elderly and cared for them out of obligation, respect, and love.
This is how remarkable America is: every day, the yellow school bus stopped there to pick up three ragged children.
One grew up to become a beloved physician across four counties. Another raised a strong family and contributed meaningfully to his community.
The youngest became a firefighter.
When the shack eventually fell into disrepair, the firefighter placed a trailer on the property and raised his family there, including a dark-haired daughter with striking eyes. Those children who grew up in slightly better circumstances than their fathers also became hardworking Americans who contribute to society.
Years ago, a century-old two-story farmhouse on the other end of our road was sold. The new owner restored it beautifully, adding vintage touches to the front porch and a set of chairs where she often sat reading.
One day, I stopped to introduce myself. As is customary in the South, I asked questions like, “Where are you from?” and “Who are your people?”
It turned out she had grown up in the trailer that once stood where the old Westmoreland shack had been. Her great-grandmother was the one who was dying when Mama and I brought over the cake. She is kind and accomplished and works remotely for a company based elsewhere.
“All I ever wanted was to come back here,” she said. “It’s home. That’s comforting.”
“You can’t outrun home,” I replied, knowingly.
We became more than neighbors.
She lets me pick apples from her tree for our horses. One day last winter, she passed by and saw me shoveling gravel into our driveway from the roadside after the county had laid it during a snow. For 14 years, I had used Simpson’s for gravel.
This time, however, they delivered a load mixed more with sand than stone. I called the company and spoke with a man named Adam.
He laughed. “What do you want me to do about it?”
I have called the owner several times since, but he has paid me little attention. So there I was, shoveling county-laid gravel instead.
My neighbor laughed as she drove by and said she could use some, too.
When her son joined the military, I prayed for him regularly. When he applied for a top-secret government job, I vouched for him. A few weeks ago, her daughter graduated from medical school with honors and became a surgeon at a prestigious hospital.
All of it grew from a rotting shack.
Let it not be forgotten that America is truly the land of opportunity.
Happy 250th anniversary, my good and faithful friend. May you have hundreds more.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of the Stella Bankwell mystery series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.