Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

gold heaven crown right now.” The sturdy table shook a second time as Becky pounded it.
    “Hell, Aunt Becky, I can’t lay in a bed with a man that is always laying up in some other woman’s bed.” Annalaura had barely gotten the words out of her mouth when she felt the stinging slap across her cheek.
    Becky had knocked over the good chair as she reached across the table to deliver the blow.
    “I learned you better than to cuss, gal. A good woman can always find ’nother word to say what she means. ’Sides, a man don’t want to hear a decent woman sayin’ a cuss word.” Rebecca, who had been a woman of a fair size in her young days, had shrunk down to just a little bit above Annalaura’s nose. But right now she towered over her like Goliath gloating over David. “Get that runnin’ off foolishness out of yo’ head. When that man does come back, you gonna keep him so tuckered out, he ain’t never gonna stray no further than yo’ front do’ without him tellin’ you first.”
    Becky moved to the corner safe and returned with a half jar of cornmeal and a tin of flour. She held out a bloodied parcel wrapped in tobacco leaves. Annalaura held her hand to her cheek.
    “Take this here rabbit. It’s just the front quarters. Ben Roy brought it to me this morning.”
    Annalaura knew that Becky lived alone in the cabin and had long ago passed her work usefulness on the farm. Still the Thorntons kept her fed and clothed with a few supplies every month.
    “I’m right sorry, Aunt Becky.” She held out her hand for the bloody package. “My babies haven’t had meat since Independence Day. John only left us one slab of bacon and we just finished that up.” She bit her tongue when the hard look threatened to come back into Becky’s eyes for criticizing John.
    “Here’s some meal and flour. I’ll fetch you some salt and baking soda, and I’ve got the last of the pole beans in the garden. You can have some of them fo’ your children.” Her voice had softened. “When he gets back here, yo’ man don’t want to hear that his woman couldn’t keep his children fed. Now get on back home.”
    The walk back to the barn took even longer because Annalaura couldn’t carry both the supplies and Henry. The boy took ample opportunity to protest his fatigue by sitting down at every other rut in the much-rutted road. It was nearing dark when she guided her youngest up the ladder. Even before Henry reached the top rung, she knew something was wrong.
    “Momma, Cleveland hurt his leg.” Lottie shoved Henry aside before Annalaura’s head had even cleared the opening.
    “What do you mean, hurt his leg?” Before she could gaze in the direction of Cleveland’s cot, Doug’s desperate wheeze for breath caught her attention.
    She dropped to the pallet on the floor where the young boy hung his face over a bowl of lukewarm water and frantically waved both hands to bring up the nonexistent steam.
    “I heated the water myself, Momma.” Lottie’s note of pride was lost on Annalaura who had a sudden vision of her five-year-old aflame around the cantankerous stove McNaughton had rigged up in the smoke house.
    “I told you not to go by that stove unless I was near.” The sharpness in Annalaura’s words was at counterpoint to the panic rapidly taking over her mind. She heard Cleveland groan a greeting to her.
    “It’s all right, Momma. Doug took sick before I had my fall. I was in the barn when Lottie was boilin’ the water.” Cleveland’s wail sounded his  hurt.
    Another grunt came from the cot as Annalaura jumped to her feet and ran over to her eldest. The boy was laying in his alcove, the side of his face badly scraped.
    “Lottie, get me some water from the basin there,” she commanded the girl, as Henry ran to comply.
    “Lottie already done give me a rag, Momma. It’s my leg.” Cleveland nodded his head in the direction of his left leg, and the effort brought forth another grunt.
    She watched her rock of a son dissolve into tears.
    “My Lord, Cleveland. What done happened?” The left pant leg of her son’s one pair of work britches hung in bloody shreds around his knee.
    The skin over the shinbone, between knee and calf, had doubled in size, and a deep scratch ran across the area. Annalaura grabbed the wet cloth from Henry and laid it gently across the wound. She knew the bone was broken. She only prayed it was a clean break.
    “I was in the rafters, Momma. Gettin’ things ready for tomorrow, so we