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 out from Altus Arkansas, so that was the answer. For the next 8 or ten years, I got to spend my entire summers with Granny and Grandad and my Uncle Dick and Aunt Artie.

Mother would pack me a big 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 Greyhound bus headed for Ozark, Arkansas. The only thing I remember about the ride was that it stopped a lot places and people would get on or off. My seat was right behind the bus driver and he made sure that no one bothered me.

Just think about that a minute!

A little girl, nine or ten years old, and alone, riding a public transportation bus from the Texas Panhandle to Ozark, Arkansas… a good 12-14 hour ride.
And we never thought a thing about it.

Those summer trips continued until I was probably fourteen or fifteen. And every time, at the end of the ride, standing waiting for me to step off that bus and into their arms and safety, were Aunt Artie, and Uncle Dick. And Granny and Granddad waiting at home.

They took care of me… They gave Mother the help she needed. And they 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. I learned by being there, helping, watching, and spending time with people who knew how to make a life in the country.

At the time, I was simply spending the summer with family. 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. Uncle Dick furnished the money.

The week before school started back 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 sharing what she knew. 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 nine- or ten-year-old child on a bus to make that trip alone today?

There is not a way in the world.

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 to raise and a full time job to do, 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 they gave me—and for the chance to pass some of that caring along.

As long as God gives me another sunrise, He isn’t finished writing my story. And that means He’s not finished with yours either So… please don’t stop.

Next – One Bucket… One Dipper