In loving memory of my father and mother, William Martin Holloway and Nancy Louvene Justice. Mama and Dad, my love lives. . .
          In memory of Nina Mae Wilkinson, my sweet, yellow rose of Virginia, my brother, William Holloway, and my sisters, Gloria Louise and Joan Holloway.
 

         In the year 1874 in Pike County, Kentucky, there were born two boys, Franklins both. I will concern myself first with Franklin Charles, the son of my great grandfather, John Charles. In 1873 John married Mary Elizabeth Keene, the daughter of Josiah Harper Keene, my third great grandfather. Harper, as he was called, was descended from the Harper family who owned Harper's Ferry in West Virginia. In June of 1874 John and Mary Charles became the parents of Franklin Charles who was to become my great uncle.

         Frederick Charles, the uncle of John Charles, married Pricy Keene, the sister of Mary Elizabeth Keene. In July of 1874, Frederick and Pricy's son, Franklin Charles was born.

          The above facts were gleaned from the trail of paper I followed while searching for my ancestors. In the year 1900 the trail I followed turned sour. As I viewed the United States Census for Raccoon Creek, Kentucky, the home of Frederick Charles leapt onto the computer screen. If I had been a crying man, as I have since became, at that moment I certainly would have cried. Eagerly, I wrote down the names of the children, some new to me, some the same as listed on the 1880 census. I frowned slightly as my eyes roved down the list. Where is Franklin Charles? I thought.

          Ordinarily, I would not have puzzled over the absence of a child from a family, especially one who had attained the age of twenty six as had Franklin Charles, but a new and exciting scent wafted from the page I read. There on the census list where my eyes should have been seeing Franklin Charles, a new name stared back at me. Cella Charles, I thought, age twenty six, born in the year 1874.

          The detective in me chomped at the bit. There existed a wrong done to my great uncle Franklin that I wanted to make right. After the year 1900, only one Franklin Charles lived in Pike County, Kentucky. This Franklin Charles lived next door to his father, my great grandfather, John Charles. My father knew his uncle personally, after all, he was the brother of my grandmother. All genealogists who have made their work public maintain that the Franklin Charles who lived and died in Pike County, Kentucky was the son of Frederick Charles. My great uncle's wife, his children, his property, and all things related to him have been assigned to Frederick Charles' son, Franklin Charles. Therein lies the wrong done to my great uncle that I am determined to undo.

         Down the road I walked toward my great grandfather's home. You see, by this time I had transferred myself to that place in time. It was a beautiful sight. I mentioned above that I have became a crying man. I am crying now. Raccoon Creek in the springtime. There! On the side of the mountain, nestled among the sumac bushes and paw paw trees stood my great, great uncle Greenville Charles' home. I paused to listen to the whispering song of the redbuds as I looked toward Greenville's heaven. No, please do not argue with me. Redbuds do sing. Only us lucky few have listened to them.

         I heard the echo of the mules' hooves on the dirt and gravel of the road before they came into my view. Snippets of conversation rushed headlong before the mules, feminine squeals of delight.

         "Mattie Charles, you sit yourself down right now before I tell Grandma on you!"

         "You ain't the boss of me, Elley! I ain't a going to do it, neither."

         The two voices embraced in song, "Sary Ellen Rose died alone on a night of a blue moon sent from heaven. Sary Ellen Rose."

         A big, red mule trotted around the curve of the road. In the traces beside him, as mules sometimes will, a gray mule strained to impede his progress. On the seat of the wagon the red mule pulled, a man leaned foward as he urged the mules onward. Beside the driver, wearing what my Daddy would say was her Sunday go to meetin' finery, a sweet-faced woman swayed from side to side as she laughed.

         "I do declare, Thomas! I believe that old man over at Marrowbone got the best of you when he sent you home with that gray mule."

         "Reckon he did, Francis. Reckon he did."

          The two girls in the wagon had stood up, and the ballad of Sary Ellen Rose drained to a fade from their lips as their eyes seemed to take in my presence.

         "Look there at that man, Daddy," one of the girls hollered.

          The red mule eased his pace as his driver manipulated the reins. Whereon, the gray mule spitefully began to pull the wagon forward. With that big, red mule a coming at me like he was, all wall-eyed and spraddle-legged, of a sudden I taken it in mind to light a shuck out of his way.




more to come
 

          I had to think on this before coming to a decision. Could I do justice to space aliens? Perhaps. . . And then again, maybe not.
          Seven o'clock this morning, May sixth. . . The invitation to a Campfire I received last night has disappeared over night, almost as magically as it had appeared.
          Poof!
 

          I have finished reading the novel, A Painted House by John Grisham. It was delightful. Before this reading, I had only admired Mr. Grisham by reason of his talent for the written word. There now exists in my heart a feeling of kinship for Mr. Grisham.
          I thank Mr Grisham for two words that stuck to my ribs and nourished me while I was reading his novel at one sitting, or should I thank the authors of one of the seven other books I have read this week? To the one deserving of my thanks, I humbly offer them.
          Peach light. Two words. I thought as I saw them, I can do something with this treasure that has been laid before me.