Grantville, Georgia
Congratulations Amy!
Amy’s Bio:
Amy Fuster lives outside metro Atlanta on nine acres with her husband of 18 years, their two sons, two dogs, and a dozen goldfish that live in her koi pond with a resident bullfrog. Her inner writer just recently emerged with a roaring battle cry for attention. Managing the home front, their numerous rental properties and the tenants who come with the territory, and pursuing her Black Belt in karate, are additional pursuits vying for her attention. She’s working on her first novel, Lottery Lost, in addition to grooming the writing beast with tools from the Long Ridge Writers Group Breaking Into Print course. Most recently, she’s been published as 3rd place winner in Newnan-Coweta Magazine’s writing contest, and a book review published in the LongRidge newsletter. Travel articles are soon to follow, as ten days recently spent in Hawaii provide a myriad of memories to motivate her muse.
Contact her at: fuster1up[at]Hughes[dot]net
The Road Twisted Twice
The road twisted twice, and in between the curves an old mill house squatted. The last in a row hastily built for cotton mill workers who'd forever owe charges at the company store.
It wasn't the sagging front porch with a telephone pole crutch, nor the worn shingle siding that caught my eye, it was the well-worn woman decorating the porch that intrigued me.
As I slowed my Navigator to a respectable speed negotiating the left curve, my eyes wandered right to hers. I'd raced by before but didn't remember seeing houses, so little I took notice of the poverty I passed. But those soft eyes swelled the curiosity in me.
In a five second glance, long by glance standards, the mocha folds of skin cascading down her cheekbones, and gathered under her chin, were enriched by a set of eyes that shared, for the moment they held mine, a lifetime of forgiveness and mercy, grace and gratitude. Her presence was a proud gem nestled by the dull surroundings.
I held the curve and looked back for another second, not wanting to let the moment pass, but there was a crash looming if I didn't pay attention to where I was going.
I wondered where she had been. What scenes created the peace in her eyes, and contentment to sit on the porch projecting her memories right out into the dirt yard? So clearly that even I thought I could see them.
My imagination took over, but what I really wanted was to rewind, find her sitting just like that, and stop my life long enough to touch hers. To park the car and climb the steps, at a Georgia summer pace, and say "Good morning. Mind if I sit with you a spell?” And pull up a lawn chair, reach into her bucket for a handful of peas to shell and ask how she prepares them and she'd tell me... "You start with some fatback, fry it up good, and then...” She'd nourish my need to connect, not with that whole class, or race, but with this very individual soul of class and grace. Break through the garble of multitudes and listen to the cornhusk voice tell me, as if we were cousins, not strangers, how it is, and reminisce how it was when we picked cotton by hand.
The thing is, I never stopped. The next time I drove by she wasn't there, nor the next. My life proceeded straight ahead and then I had no reason to take the twisty road, and then I got busy, and the opportunity passed me by.
Since then I've learned that life doesn't rewind, but I can pause. Offered a nugget of wisdom, I should brake for it, not just slow down, but come to a full stop and collect those prize moments.
I'll always cherish the conversations she and I never had.
Next time, I will stop...and idle a while between life's curves.
***