A Sunday Afternoon

My sister Suzanne and I were collecting cicada shells off pine tree trunks competing to see who could find the most. The growl of a vehicle approaching up our long driveway sent us both diving for shelter under the abelia bushes. It was a perfect hideaway for two little girls. We could see out but not be seen, like deer in the forest. We watched as the vehicle, a pickup truck, rocked around a nearby curve. It was Uncle Henry and Aunt Joyce! For them, we would leave the seclusion of our hideaway leaving the cicada shells behind, and show ourselves at the house.

Uncle Henry and Aunt Joyce had a farm near Commerce, Georgia, about thirty miles away. He and Dad talked about what was growing, about who might run for president, about how high taxes were and the price of hay. Aunt Joyce and Mamma caught up on what vegetables they were canning, the scandalous short hems, and who was getting married. Sometimes Uncle Henry brought his two daughters the age of our older siblings. We had a great time playing lawn games when Barbara and Miriam came. But even if it were only adults, as it was today, we liked to listen to the conversation.

But one of the reasons we loved for Uncle Henry to come was our fascination with his pickup truck. Our brothers thoroughly inspected the truck, kicking the tires, and all but looking under the hood. As on this particular Sunday afternoon, our hope was always that we would get to ride all the way to the highway in the back of Uncle Henry’s truck when he left. It had happened before. Maybe, again, he would invite us to ride down the hill. It was so much more exciting than riding all cramped up in Daddy’s Packard, not that we rode anywhere very often.

After Mamma and our sisters served cookies and tea, and after the adults had laughed about things that really weren’t funny to us–our guests stood to leave. Uncle Henry retrieved his hat and Aunt Joyce straightened her skirt as we all gathered around to say goodby. Then it happened. Uncle Henry winked at us and said to Daddy, “How about letting these youngsters ride down to the highway in the back of the truck?”

The driveway was rocky and rough so Uncle Henry couldn’t go very fast but I think he drove even slower than he needed to in order to give us a longer ride. There were five or six of us in the back of the truck jostling and giggling, reaching up to pick low brushing leaves, squealing with delight when Uncle Henry swerved adventurously. There were several curves in the half mile stretch of road, some gentle, some pretty tight. I watched our familiar slopes of lawn, the pond, Daddy’s studio, and the guest cottage go by. Everything seemed to look a little different, as if we were on a long, marvelous trip.

As we neared the highway, crossing a little bridge over the brook and driving past a stone retaining wall, I wondered what it would be like just to drive on off with Uncle Henry and Aunt Joyce. Our older sisters had once spent a week on the Dunsons’ farm and came home talking about baling hay and making hand-cranked ice cream.

But now as Uncle Henry pulled to a stop, I was suddenly very glad to clamber down with the rest and wave goodby. There was still time to collect more cicada shells and then later, in the dusk, we could catch fireflies. We might even talk our siblings into playing “Rover, Red Rover” or some game like that.

It was a wonderful Sunday afternoon. Now I’m wondering if Uncle Henry had any idea how much pleasure he gave us with that short ride.