Down Home Dixie. Pamela Browning
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It wasn’t the first time someone had been curious about the truck, a modified pickup. “I’m a farrier,” he said.
“A what?”
“A horseshoer. I shoe horses. I carry equipment with me. Forge, anvil, grinders, horseshoes, things like that.”
She appeared intrigued. “You’re the first farrier I’ve ever met. Where do you work?”
“I have my own business and service stable horses, pets, a few mules here and there. I love what I do, and it fits in well with my hobby. I take care of the cavalry horses at the reenactments.”
Dixie sat on a nearby tree stump. “Some of the things you said last night about reenactments—they touched me,” she said. “Though I could do without your being related to General Sherman.”
He glanced at her briefly, but kept weeding, tossing uprooted plants into an old bushel basket. “If it’s any comfort, my great-grandfather was never formally acknowledged by the Sherman family. He was the illegitimate child of the general’s unmarried son and took the Sherman name only after his father died.”
“Oh. Is that a sore point?”
“Not to me, but you won’t find our branch of the family on any genealogical charts.”
She thought that over for a moment. “Um, where can I go to a reenactment?”
“In Camden there’s an excellent one every fall. It’s a Revolutionary War reenactment, so I don’t participate, but you might enjoy it.”
“The battle of Camden…didn’t the Americans lose that one?”
He grinned. “I’m afraid so. You’re up on your history lessons.”
“I won a medal in eighth grade for the highest average in middle-school history courses. I was proud of it.”
He stood up, surveyed the flower bed. He’d eliminated the weeds, but it still needed edging. “That’s a whole lot better. I’d be glad to clear the weeds out of the other beds for you.”
“Aren’t we going to drive downtown to get your truck?”
“Well, sure.” He leaned back, hands on his hips. “It’s just that I don’t really need to be anyplace special right away. I have another guy covering my business for me back in Ohio. In fact, I’d like to ride around the horse country near Camden, and if you’re agreeable, maybe we could barter a few more days’ lodging in your cottage for my work around the place.”
“Yankee, you’ve got a deal.”
He reached out his hand to shake hers then quickly withdrew it when he realized his was too dirty to touch anything but more weeds. “I guess I’d better take another shower,” he said ruefully.
“Okay, I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be going on to my grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner.” She hesitated, clearly unsure of her ground. “You could come with me if you like. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple family meal, but you’ll leave well fed.”
“I’d like that,” he said slowly. “I’d like it a lot.”
Dixie aimed a smile at him, one that could knock a man over at twenty paces. Her skirt swung with a flirtatious flip as she started toward the house. “Be ready in half an hour, and I’ll tell Memaw that there’ll be one extra. We’ll go get your truck first and drop it off here on our way to her house.” She stopped and frowned, half turning around. “Another thing,” she added. “While we’re there, don’t tell anyone your last name.” She disappeared into the house, the door shutting firmly behind her.
What the heck does she mean, don’t tell anyone your last name? Kyle wondered as he hefted the basket of weeds. Still puzzling over it, he went to check his cell phone. It still hadn’t revived, but that was okay. Suddenly he didn’t feel a need to be connected, and that was a freeing feeling. Whistling, he went inside to take a shower.
WHEN THEY WENT into town to retrieve Kyle’s truck, Dixie put the top down on her convertible. Her hair ruffled in the wind, and they passed countless fields readied for spring planting. Dixie drove a little too fast for Kyle’s taste, but she was a competent driver and he didn’t object.
At the dentist’s parking lot, she was curious to inspect his truck. “The cargo area’s built on the chassis of a regular pickup,” Kyle explained. “The sides and back open upward so I can get to my equipment.”
He flipped up the rear hatch. “This makes shade where I stand to work if there isn’t a tree or barn around.” He also opened the sides, which lifted up like wings, so she could see the variety of horseshoes stacked on “trees” expressly made for that purpose. Racks and compartments held rasps and nails. He kept his equipment scrupulously neat and clean, and Dixie seemed impressed.
“Maybe I’ll get to watch you shoe a horse someday,” she said.
“Maybe you will,” he told her, liking the idea.
They dropped his truck off next to the sasanqua hedge beside her driveway, and Kyle slid back into the passenger side of the car. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect at this gathering of the Smith clan, so Dixie explained about her family as they drove into the countryside.
“Our branch of Smiths have resided in the area since before the American Revolution,” she told him. “Several of my ancestors fought in the War Between the States. Their names are engraved on the base of the statue of the Confederate soldier in Memorial Park downtown.”
This was apparently the root of Dixie’s reluctance to mention his last name to her family. Kyle didn’t understand; generations had lived and died since the end of the Civil War. People should be over it. Still, twenty-nine years ago, because that’s how old she said she was, someone had named this woman Dixie Lee to commemorate an ill-fated nation and its greatest general, Robert E. Lee.
Dixie kept talking. “Memaw Frances is my paternal grandmother. My daddy died some years ago of heart disease, and Mama was just plain prostrate with grief. Then, in a worst-case scenario, she suffered a fatal embolism shortly after we lost Daddy. I’ve no lack of relatives, so I have a large extended family. What my sister and I would have done without them, I can’t imagine.”
Kyle, whose father had retired to the Florida Keys where he earned a marginal living as a fishing guide and whose mother had run off with a magazine salesman not long after he was born, knew little about big families and said so.
“Why, I can’t imagine not getting everyone together on Sundays like we do,” she said with honest astonishment. “What on earth do you do instead?”
Kyle couldn’t really answer that. Sunday was just like any other day to him, only there were a lot more sports programs on TV. Sometimes Andrea stayed over, and they’d go out for breakfast, or he’d get together with his reenactor friends. He’d never considered that he was missing anything.
Along the way, Dixie pointed out the Smith family’s old home place, a large Victorian house that belonged to her sister, Carrie, and her husband. About a quarter of a mile down the road, Frances Smith lived in a sprawling brick rancher at the end of a long driveway winding through a pecan grove.
He followed Dixie into the house. A picture of Ronald Reagan hung beside the door and a well-worn Bible lay on the hall table. Dixie’s grandmother looked to be a spry eighty. The guests included Dixie’s cousin Voncille, an ample-size redhead with a hearty laugh and a husband who barely spoke a word. The husband’s name was Skeeter, and he and Voncille had four children, stair steps named Paul, Liddy, Amelia and Petey.
Claudia, Frances’s sister, who was hard of hearing, had brought her unmarried son, Jackson, who immediately pulled Kyle aside and asked him if he liked to watch pornographic movies. Another male relative named Estill, hollow of chest and bald of head, lurked on the outskirts of the group, and Kyle had no idea what his relation was to anybody else, nor did anyone explain it.
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