Down to the Ground

Opal stood at the edge of the cotton field and watched the house burn.

Her younger sisters were crying as they all huddled together. Glancing at Mama she saw that expression of grimness and maybe underlying anger that seemed to be Mama's reaction to all of life.

Or maybe just life the way we live it.

Poor sweet Daddy was sitting on a stump with his head buried in his hands.

The neighbors had gathered in the middle on the bleak December night. There was a current of relief as they gathered around the burned-out family. When one of these shotgun shacks began to burn there was a good a chance as not of the folks inside burning with it.

Opal's best friend Wiiladean hugged her.

"I'm so glad you all are okay."

Opal merely nodded, too numb to cry or acknowledge her friend or anything else. She could remember Mama crying out, "The house is on fire!" and Daddy rushing into the front room where they slept to grab baby Alice out of her crib.

Mama and Daddy slept in the middle room. Blessedly the fire had started in the back room, in the kitchen. The smoke burned her nostrils as she helped herd her sisters out the front door.

The small Christmas tree stood in in the corner with its meager decorations and the few presents.

No time to save any of that. She could hear the crackling blaze begin to roar as it grew in intensity and burned its way toward the front of the house.

"You'll stay with me," said Willadean. Indeed each of the children would be shared out among the neighbors until Daddy found them another house.

Though times were hard and money scarce as hen's teeth every family scattered on the nearby farms would pitch in somehow. Even those who sharecropped like Daddy did would pitch in a can of beans.

It was what neighbors did. You picked up the pieces and did the best you could.