It started on Decoration Day. There I was, sunburned and peeling, in my new dress my mom made and a brand new pair of white, stark white high heeled shoes. Rather, they were white when I left home that morning, but by the time I made it to the spring, they were dusty and scuffed. I had strolled all morning up and down the road that connected the church house and cemetery, letting everyone know that I was there, hoping to impress some of the cool guys lounging on car hoods looking at girls. The small church house was built on a rolling Tennessee hill. Its only source of water at the time was a natural spring at the bottom of the hill. The church had been there many, many years, and a well-worn path led one to the bottom for a drink of water at the spring. Rainfall, seeking its easiest path to the sea, had eroded the path into a gully, and the actual path was now beside the red clay gully, and one had to walk very carefully if one was wearing high heels for the very first time. The sprin...
Bloggy Randomness. All text and images copyright of wandastricklinrobertson.