The miles slipped away in flashes of lush, verdant green as we drove through the three counties, over the Suwanee River twice, up the windy road to Airline Baptist Church. Trees heavy with thick rain fed growth lined the roads. Fields flashed by, two with fully loaded tobacco rows waiting harvesting, others full of field corn and peanuts. The river at both crossing was higher than past years, another witness of the blessed rains which have fallen this year.
As we crossed the Hal W. Adams bridge, a picture of the bridge on opening day over half a century ago flashed in my mind. There were speeches and ribbon cutting, but the thing which remains with me was the terror I felt walking over the grating at the edge of the bridge. I do not know why this was so frightening, but I know that it was. Nothing my mother could say lessened the fear. She did finally get me off the bridge. Driving over it was fine.
The first road to the left is somewhat different from the way it was when we would turn onto it to take Granny Jackson to Aunt Onie's house. It still has crooks and turns, but it is a little wider and has recently been repaved. I think of my mother's stories of when she lived on this road and walked a mile or two to the school. The school building is still there, now painted a light yellow and used as a farm building.
Off to the left shortly after the turn off state road 51, is a road which goes to New Hope Baptist Church where my great grandparents Brown and their toddler are buried. All three died of some type stomach flu within days of each other, orphaning my granny Jackson.
I always knew that when we hit the crossroads with US 27 that we would be close to one of my favorite places in the world, Uncle Wilbur's store. I knew that I would find there two of my favorite people in the whole world, Uncle Wilbur in his wheelchair and Aunt Onie of the big laugh and big hug.
As we would turn on the road, I remember Granny Jackson's statement, "They say it is just as close to go by town." Now, half a century later, I know that what they said was pretty much true. It is about the same mileage to skip the turn off and go to Mayo and turn left. I also know that the road probably frightened my granny whose eye sight had been failing for years.
As we travel the road, I see a memory shot off some of my uncles and their cousins as young men out for a little fun driving this road long before it was paved. I see them leaning out of their car window to scoop up some of the sand with their hats, laughing and whooping as they feel the night air rushing by.
As we pass by where the "boys", my uncles, lived before they left home I remember my mother's tales of the barrel of plum wine they made out back of the house. I see the swept yards, the wide boards on the porch, worn smooth by years of scrubbing, the rosebush by the steps. I hear their laughter.
As we near Airline, memories come quickly: my cousin Glenda playing the piano at church, the slatted pews, the warmth of the church on a summer Sunday morning, the funerals of many of those people out in the graveyards. I remember the coming together during these times of grief and the guilty pleasure of seeing those we didn't keep in contact with except at these sad times.
We arrive at the new building and admire the loveliness of the design, the utility of the new nursery, the comfort of the chairs and the air conditioned air. It is a lovely facility for a church teeming with young families who have outgrown the place across the road.
These people, also, will make memory snapshots of days around this building. The efforts of all those who have walked before them make this possible. The past is very much a part of today.
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