She’d prepare coffee in an old percolator and make fresh buttermilk biscuits.
“The dirt can wait, Elnora,” she’d say. “I won’t.”
So we sat.
We talked about the weather, our families, local gossip, politics, and everything in between.
A veces nos reíamos hasta que nuestros ojos se regaban.
Sometimes we remembered people we’d lost.
And sometimes we simply enjoyed the quiet.
For twenty-six years, those Friday mornings became something I treasured.
Mrs. Lockridge had three sons.
Carlton was the oldest.
A retired banker who called his mother every Sunday.
Thurston was a wealthy property developer.
Bertram, the youngest, had tried several businesses and often seemed to need financial assistance.
Neither Thurston nor Bertram visited regularly.
But whenever they appeared, they talked about property values and future development opportunities.
They looked across the pasture as though calculating how many houses could be built there.
One Christmas, Thurston walked into the kitchen while I was washing dishes.
