Free Finding Floyd by Melinda Peters

turned to Vicky and continued, "The Evans's were one of
the first white families to settle there. Lived with the Indians,
Chickasaw if I remember correctly, or maybe it was the Choctaw.
Worked hard, clearing the land themselves and living in a little
ol' log cabin."
    "That's amazing. Tell me more," she
enthused.
    "Well now. If I recollect, Jeremiah, he and
his folks survived them earthquakes." He frowned, remembering. "But
their home and everything they'd worked so hard for was destroyed,
and they had to rebuild. Then, it wasn't hardly any time at all; he
marched off to war with Old Hickory and fought in the Second War of
Independence. War of 1812, they call it now. They say he was nearly
killed in an Indian attack. Had a brother was killed by the
Indians, though. Or in the war somehow." The old man reached down,
took up a mason jar by his side, deftly spun the lid off, and took
a long swallow. He sighed deeply with satisfaction and set it down
beside his rocking chair.
    "I'd like to spend more time with you and
hear more of your stories. They shouldn't ever be lost and
forgotten. Would you mind if I took notes?" she asked eagerly.
    "Well now. I reckon that's not a bad idea, if
you've a mind to, young lady. Daddy and Granddaddy told me lots of
stories." Nodding thoughtfully, he admitted, "I'd like for them to
be writ down. Probably should've done it myself long ago."
    Her curls bouncing with every step, a pretty
little girl in a pink dress trotted past the musicians as they
tuned their instruments, and stopped in front of Vicky and
Jeremiah. She cradled a baby doll on one hip, a miniature baby
bottle pressed firmly into its tiny mouth. There was a smug, self
possessed expression on her alert little face.
    "Hi. I'm Lina," she announced, eyeing Vicky
with curiosity.
    "Is that your baby?" Vicky asked.
    Lina smiled indulgently at the doll and
sighed. "Yes. My baby's name is Cassandra. I'm taking her inside
now. She has to have her nap."
    "I see," said Vicky, her eyes twinkling with
amusement.
    "Yes, it's nap time," she said reaching up to
open the kitchen door. "Good-bye." The screen door slammed behind
her.
    "That sweet little thing is just cute as a
button. Reminds me of my own youngsters, a good many years ago,"
said Jeremiah.
    He glanced away to watch the quartet of
musicians begin playing on the other end of the spacious porch, his
foot keeping time with the lively tune. He picked up his jar and
took another drink before tucking it safely back beside his
chair.
    Vicky vaguely wondered why the old man was
drinking water from a dusty mason jar. "All this talking has made
you thirsty!" She leaned towards him and raised her voice to be
heard over the music. "Here I've been asking you all these
questions and I never offered to get you an iced tea or lemonade.
Maybe you'd like some coffee?"
    "That won't be necessary sweet thing. He
grinned and winked at her. "I've brought along my own jar." He
turned to watch the men playing guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and base
as the volume increased. "Lord have mercy," he shouted. "That
Hardwick boy is one fine fiddle player for one so young. My own
daddy was right handy with the fiddle, but I never had the
gift."
    Vicky was about to steer Mr. Evans back to
the subject of the earthquakes, when she felt Jack's hand on her
shoulder.
    "Got a minute?" her husband asked, motioning
for her to follow him into the kitchen."
    "Excuse me, Mr. Evans." Vicky stood up and
leaned down so the old man could hear. "I'm looking forward to
visiting with you soon to hear more about your family history.
Perhaps later?"
    "I ain't going anywhere, leastways not 'til
the good Lord calls me home," he yelled. "Be happy to tell you
everything I can recollect darlin'." He began rocking again, his
attention already focused on the music.
    Jack put his arm around his wife's waist,
pulling her to him as they stepped inside. Just like the back
porch, the kitchen was humming with activity. Diane was slicing
cakes and brownies that