![]() Then, Emory led us down a long, deeply shaded driveway, past the house where my parents had lived during the early years of their marriage. When I was a child, my family, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, had picnics near the river.A dirt road turned into a paved road and then into another dirt road. We seemed to be leaving one world for another, and the journey was long and delicious, brimming with silence. I pointed out old fashioned petunias that seemed to be growing wild. Following Emory and Hal, I told my husband I didn’t know where the heck we were going and didn’t know if we’d ever find our way out. If I’d placed my hands in the soil of the fields, I would have discovered a pulse and touched a heartbeat, the same pulse my ancestors had known.Ī beautiful sight to see when searching for graves.ĭeeper and deeper we snaked among curving roads in Atkinson County. I swooned over the countryside, so raw and beautiful, and inhaled the scent of earth. We passed the creek where my family had once gathered for family picnics, passed the Rowe-Jowers cemetery where many of my kin are buried, passed places where my father used to help his Grandpa Jowers on the farm. Our caravan was comprised of three vehicles as we pulled out of Emory’s land and headed to Atkinson County, to the place where my Great Grandpa Jowers used to live on the Willacoochee River, to the place that hid a small graveyard. And then it was time to go.Įmory was the lead driver, the only one who knew where to find the graves. We searched through old photos, remembering the love of our parents and the good times we once had. My group laughed and shared stories with my cousin and his wife. A beautiful July day in Atkinson County, Georgia. Emory is known throughout the South for a sign on his property: Used Cows for Sale. In appreciation of their kindness to us, I gave them a painting I’d done of a cow. My husband, my sister Debra, Hal Sutton, my son Patrick, and I sat with Emory and his sweet wife Jeanette on their screened porch. We stopped, called Emory for instructions, and were soon back on track. This time, knowing we’d passed the turn, we wasted no time in getting help. My cousin lives so far in the boonies the government can’t find him. I’d written the address on a scrap of paper and, in my haste, had gotten the numbers wrong. Even though I dreaded leaving the island with its glorious hydrangeas, mild weather, and blue waters, Emory’s news of more graves excited me, woke the explorer in me.īack in Georgia, headed to Emory’s house, I once again irked my grave-hunting group by getting them lost. Driving into the field.Įmory and I made plans to touch base when I returned to Tifton. ![]() Hunting graves is an addiction that takes me back to the land and its beauty and wildness. “Brenda! Where are you, girl? I’ve got another place to show you where you’ll find some old graves,” he said, his voice booming, softened around the edges.Įmory knows I’ve been hunting graves for years. Emory Tucker, my father’s first cousin, was on the other end. I was at Martha’s Vineyard a few weeks ago when my phone rang.
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