I was nine years old when my Daddy died.

Mother had to go to work full time, and when school let out for the summer, she needed somewhere for me to stay.

My Grandparents and two of Daddy’s sisters all lived in the country outside of Altus Arkansas, so that was the answer.

For the next 8 or 9 years, I got to spend my entire summers in Arkansas with Granny, Granddad, my Uncle Dick and Aunt Artie.

As soon as school was out, Mother would pack me a sack lunch, put a quarter in my pocket, in case I needed anything else, take me to the bus station in Borger, Texas, and put me on a bus headed to Ozark, Arkansas.

I don’t remember much about the ride, except that it stopped in a lot of towns and people could get on or off. My seat was right behind the bus driver and he kept an eye on me and made sure that no one bothered me.

If I needed to go to the bathroom when we stopped, he would have one of the ladies on the bus, go with me.  I always hurried so the bus wouldn’t leave without me.

Just think about that a minute!

A little girl, 9 years old… and alone… riding a public transportation bus from the Texas Panhandle to Ozark, Arkansas… a good 18-20 hour trip with a lot of stops.

No one ever thought a thing about it!

When the bus door opened in Ozark, standing there waiting for me to step off that bus and into their arms and safety, were Aunt Artie and Uncle Dick, with Granny and Granddad waiting at home.

Daddy’s family took care of me.  They gave Mother the help she needed.  They also gave me something I would carry for the rest of my life… a love for country living.

Working alongside Granny, I learned things you don’t learn just by reading about them. You learn by doing them.

I learned by helping, watching, and spending time with people who knew how to make a life in the country.

Those summer trips continued until I was fifteen,  My Mother then remarried, and we moved to Arkansas from Borger.  That story is for a later time though.

At the time, I was simply spending the summer with family.

But, looking back, I can see how much those summers helped shape the woman I became.

When it was almost time for school to start again, Aunt Artie and I would go shopping for all my school clothes for the coming year and Uncle Dick furnished the money.

The week before school was actually starting in Texas, they would put me back on the bus in Ozark, with another sack lunch, and my new school clothes, and I would make the trip home to Borger.

There was a lot of love tucked into those trips:

• Mother making sure I had somewhere to go.
• Granny teaching me about snapping peas and shucking corn.
• Granddad showing me how to chop the chicken heads off so Granny could fry it for supper.
• Aunt Artie getting me ready for school.
• Uncle Dick providing the money to make it all possible.

Lately, worries about children’s safety have brought those memories back to me.

Would I put a 9  year-old child on a bus to make that trip alone today?

Not in a million years.

That is how differently I look at it now.

I know the past wasn’t free of danger, and my own safe journeys don’t tell everyone’s story. But in my family that arrangement felt ordinary enough that we did it summer after summer.

Remembering it now brings both gratitude and sadness. Gratitude that I arrived safely and had people waiting to love me. Sadness that something we accepted so readily then feels unthinkable to me today.

But I don’t want the worry to be the only thing I carry away from that memory.

I want to remember the people  who showed up for us after Daddy died.  Mother had 2 children… me and my 13 year old brother to raise, and a full time job to support us, and FAMILY helped her do both.

We can still be that kind of family for one another. We can help a mother who needs support. We can teach a child something useful. We can make room at our table and give someone a place to belong.

I’m grateful for every summer my family gave me—and for the chance to pass some of that caring along.

I know that as long as God gives me another sunrise, He isn’t finished writing my story.

If you’re reading this…  that just means He’s not finished with yours either So… please don’t stop.

Look for that person YOU can help.

Next – xxxxxxxxxxx