Christmas Eve back then, when Eisenhower was President and Elvis the king, was colder and the snow was measured in feet not inches. That Christmas, my buddies and me were as excited as any nine-year-olds could be because all of us bought a special present for our fathers. Our one and only gift to our Dads was a carton of smokes, something they’d never forget for at least for a week. Since Thanksgiving, when the first real snow arrived we, on Saturday mornings, fanned out like an army of ants at a July picnic. With snow shovels slung over our shoulders, we knocked on stranger’s doors offering to shovel driveways, sidewalks, roofs, cars and patios. Hell, we’d shovel anything to earn fifty cents to reach the magic goal of three dollars and ninety-eight cents for a carton. Then, right before Christmas, all of us had enough saved to see Mr. Reese’s at his store. Mr. Reese, knew we were buying them for our fathers so he’d saved those special boxes sold only during the holidays. They were. In ’51, she remembered, the rains had come! The river had opened its wide gray thighs and took in the rain. And swelled and opened, pregnant with the flood, . It rained and rained. The river swallowed the livestock first. Its belly grew. Still hungry, it ate the crops. And still it swelled. She too had been swollen, heavy with her ninth child. Marty, her third husband, dear sweet Marty, had fought the river. And she by his side had fought, too, filling and toting sand bags for several days without stop, battling to keep the river from the house. The river ate and ate at the levee, devouring it nearly as fast as they built, had begun to nibble at the East corner of the house before the rains had finally ceased. To this day the house tilted that way. But the river had finally stopped. Ruined them. Impoverished them. But let them stay on to struggle anew. Later that year she had lost Marty, stomped by that stubborn old gray mule. ‘Ssshh, hush,’ the river muttered, delivering its.
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