The Number 13

Thought that I'd forgotten how long I've been in Tennessee, right?  13 years. Count them. 13 years since I left my hometown, Washington, D.C. And, because this is an emotional time for me, bear with me while I compose myself.

Thirteen years ago, Monday, April 30, my best friend packed my car for my trip south, as only he could do. I had so much to bring:  houseplants, luggage, computer, television, and more. And he made it fit, filling the front seat, the backseat, and the trunk.  Lord, that man could organize, arrange, and pack. So down the road to Rte. 66, bound for Memphis, I went.  I arrived in Cordova, TN, late that Tuesday night and got my first experience with folks being unable to give directions. Found the apartment and was grateful for a bed to lay my head.

The next morning, I booted up the computer and fired up the coffee pot.  Whoa!  I was to have met a realtor in Ripley at 9:30 a.m.  Frantic phone calls and off I go, up Rte. 40,  to heavens only knows where. No GPS (didn't need one in D.C. and the metropolitan area)--just a paper map hastily printed from the computer. No one to call if I get lost.  Flying blind and trusting in the Lord. Passed corn, goats, cows, and, finally, a sign saying Ripley--X number of miles. And, again, people at the gas station can't give directions.

I finally made it  to the realtor's office where I had the pleasure of meeting Maurine Childress. She told me that we would not go to several of the listings that I'd flagged because "they're in the country."  I had to bite my tongue because I had just come through miles of country to get to her office. But, she had lined up several showings that would be of interest.  They weren't. After a scenic tour of downtown Ripley, she pulled up in front of the house that I would eventually buy and asked did I want to go inside.  Did I ever?

Back to Cordova. I wasn't feeling Ripley. But no calls from the other realtors and the realization that researching crime from afar doesn't give an accurate picture led me back to Ripley.  Jimmy flew in to give his opinion. He wasn't feeling the house for sure. "Tear it down and start over."  The town reminded him of his hometown of Palmyra, MO and he had shucked that dirt from his heels when he left years ago.

I recently ran across paperwork showing my settlement date as the 24th of May or somewhere in that week. I proudly drove up my driveway to see that the columns and decorative items stored in the barn/shed/garage had disappeared. And while I talked to a friend back home, I realized that this hideous, furry, animal was sunbathing in the area between me and my car. OMG! doesn't begin to summarize how afraid I was. My first encounter with the neighborhood groundhog.

My brother and Jimmy both came to help me settle in. I didn't share how scared I had been when something bumped the joists under my bedroom and shook the room or how someone continued to remove the coverings to the crawl spaces. Even now, 13 years later, it still happens. I didn't share how I cried as I watched the rainwater roll down the bedroom wall that first week.

So, here we are, July 2020. My best friend is taking his well-deserved rest. He lived long enough to see the improvements and repairs. His last time here, he said that he couldn't see it when I first brought him home. A lot of hard work and money which, at times, felt like it was good money going after bad. So many memories. The break-ins which petrified me; the lack of friends for the first three years; my taking the handgun class and, finally, acquiring one.  "You bought a gun?" Lawn parties and tents on the lawn. And, of course, the arrival of Patches who immediately became Jimmy's dog.

I'm glad that he was able to see it. I couldn't have done it without him. My rock, my best friend, the wind beneath my wings. Rest easy, sweetie.

All the best. Be Safe. Be Blessed.