Dad's big Cadillac sauntered through the winding dirt roads
of his old farm place. There had been little opportunity for us to
take such a leisurely drive, but this crisp fall afternoon found my
parents and me back in Arkansas driving toward the White River.
My mind was filled with treasured childhood memories of the many
times I had journeyed down these same roads with my grandparents.
I'd often made the trip back to St. Charles, where I would delight
myself in the overflow of their love, which grew as abundantly as
did my grandfather's rice fields.
In these parts, I was known as "Chick Tuck's granddaughter" and
that said all that would ever need to be said of me. I laid claim to
this identity and wore it like a royal robe. While not a wealthy
man, the power of his word made him seem so.
Pepaw was known mostly for his strength of character. He taught
me that a contract is only as good as the person behind it, and I
took note of his skill as I observed the way he guided the farm help
through some pretty rough times.
I vividly remember the voices as they'd call out from the
sidewalk's end, "Mr. Chick. Mr. Chick." Here in the middle of a dark
summer night, I'd carefully peek through the curtains and hear the
screen door flap behind my grandfather as he approached a waiting
farm hand or neighbor.
At breakfast I would learn that he had given advice or money for
emergencies, and sometimes the loan of his truck. With each of my
visits, I could expect to hear the voices return. He continued to
hand out whatever took care of their needs.
Weekend mornings, Pepaw would allow me to drive the farm with him
as he made his inspection. His pickup truck was full of clipboards,
tools and plenty of dust. Off we'd go, Pepaw with his arm resting on
the open window and me sitting midway between the door and his side.
Together, we'd explore the wonders of the rice fields and stop
for a visit or two with passing farmers. Always, though, no matter
what their rank or status, they called him "Mr. Chick."
The best summer at the farm was when Pepaw decided it was time
for me to drive. After his day was done, we'd get in my
grandmother's big Ford and head out to the nearby landing strip.
There I would drive at will while Pepaw sat silently in the
passenger's seat reading his newspaper. Every now and then, he'd
look up and give me a few pointers.
Now and again I'd take a short trip with my grandparents, and
Pepaw would brag about what a fine traveler I was: "She can go to
California and back on a pack of potato chips and a Dr Pepper." If
only that were true.
There have been few times as comforting as those on the farm with
my grandfather. In his arms and on his lap was the best sleep I ever
had, and there was never any storm too fierce for him to handle. And
though few words were ever exchanged, I was more certain of his love
and adoration than most anything else in my young life.
I grew up knowing that if I never became anything more than Chick
Tuck's granddaughter ... well ... that would be enough for me.
Copyright ©2001 Jeanne Moseley
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