36 comments/ 65184 views/ 28 favorites Granny's Little Girl By: ronde Sweat trickled down the bare skin of Christy’s back as she made her final bow of the evening. The band played the title song from her latest single and kept the crowd of fair-goers on their feet and applauding so loudly the din threatened to drown out even the pounding thump of Terry’s electric bass. It felt good to be liked, even though she’d never meet most of the people in the audience. Security would keep the people away from her tour bus until the band had loaded up and they left the fairgrounds. Security always kept the people away, and to Christy, it seemed as if the uniformed guards were also keeping her away from her fans. Before, when she sang gospel and bluegrass, she could go where she wanted, talk to anybody, and never give it a second thought. Now that three of her singles were on the country charts, Harry, her manager, had arranged for her protection at every performance. She knew Harry was right. One of his singers had been attacked by a fan and injured a few months ago, and he’d played it safe since. It was strange, she thought, that people could like you so much they would hurt you just to get a souvenir. The singer in question hadn’t been all that well known, but the guy had still tried to rip off her top. The stage curtain came down, and Christy went from one band member to another, giving them each her usual thank you hug. It was a tradition she’d started as soon as she had a full-time band. Back in her tour bus, Christy stripped off the boots, tight leather pants, and white lace corset top, and eased her tired body into sweatpants and a T-shirt. Dave would soon be steering the bus down Interstate 40 on the way to Nashville and a one-week recording session. Christy padded on bare feet from her tiny bedroom to the refrigerator for a soda and a sandwich. She never ate before a show. In an hour, the band had loaded up and they rolled out of town. Christy lay in her bed and listened to the droning song of the wheels on the asphalt and the muffled chatter from the front of the bus. The guys would have a few beers before turning in, but they were careful to keep the noise down so they wouldn’t wake her. Christy was their special girl; that’s what they told her, anyway. It was hard to really trust what they said. She was their paycheck. If she didn’t perform well, they’d be playing backups for demo tapes again. She laughed to herself. She was just a farm girl from the mountains of Tennessee, and they treated her like a real celebrity. She liked all the guys in the band, but Terry Majors, the bass player, was her secret favorite. Terry had been a mystery since he’d joined the band. He was one of the best bass players in the business, and Harry had said she was fortunate to have him. Terry was good. He was really too good for her, and Christy couldn’t figure out why he’d joined her fledgling group. He was also a loner. At first, Christy tried to get close to Terry. There was something about the tall, slender, dark-haired man that pulled at her. When he looked at her, she read something in those brown eyes that sent a shiver down her back. That same mystique pulled at other women, too, but Terry had never been seen with a woman. All her efforts resulted in nothing. When they performed, she’d often catch him watching her and smiling, but as soon as the curtain came down, Terry retreated into his shell. Only once, in a dingy little diner outside of Shelby, Mississippi, had they spent any time together off stage. The greasy spoon was the only place open at that time of night. The other guys piled into a booth ahead of Terry and Christy, so they sat at a table by themselves. She’d felt his presence and felt her body respond. They’d talked and he seemed to relax a little, but as soon as they got on the bus, Terry went back into his own world. After a while she stopped trying. Christy Nell was born Christine Elizabeth Snelling on a little farm just outside of May’s Peak, Tennessee, a tiny little community nestled in a valley of the Great Smokies. Christy was the third of three girls born to Everett and Constance. As were most people in May’s Peak, Christy’s family was poor, but proud, and had a great love of family and friends. Family and friends were important in times of trouble. When her father hurt his back, the neighboring farmers all pitched in to harvest his crop. When Mr. Adams’ little boy got lost in the woods, Christy’s father led the search party that found him. When Christy’s mother died, her widowed grandmother stepped in to fill the void. Granny was the only mother Christy really remembered. Christy got her first new dress on her fifteenth birthday, but new clothes didn’t come just for birthdays. In this case, the reason was the annual summer revival at the Church of Christ in May’s Peak. The revival was a weeklong affair that ended with a big Sunday service. People from the surrounding communities would attend and stay the week with members of the May’s Peak congregation. At least a hundred visitors were expected, and the little church would never accommodate that many for the activities. Her father’s farm was chosen as the site for the huge tent Pastor Jackson rented in Knoxville. It would be pitched in the pasture beside the barn. The small creek that ran through the pasture would serve as the font for the many baptisms that would take place during the week. Lay ministers from as far away as Chattanooga and Atlanta would make the trip to speak during the daytime meetings. Every night, a gospel sing would take place inside the tent. Each congregation would send their best singers, and there might even be a professional group or two who’d kept the ties to their rural roots. Rumor had it the Crestwood Quartet would even be there. Everybody knew about the Crestwood Quartet. The group had formed in nearby Bar’s Ford, and had gone on to record many best-selling albums of gospel music. Christy and her sisters, June and Evelyn, were going to represent May’s Peak at the sing on Monday night. That distinction was worthy of a new dress for each. Christy’s grandmother would never have it said that her granddaughters sang well but looked a little tattered. She sold eggs and took in some sewing from the town folk to earn money for the flowered cotton material, and Christy’s father cut and polished the mussel shell buttons. After a month of sewing and fitting, Granny was satisfied her girls looked just right. Christy was overjoyed. All her other clothes had been worn by both her older sisters before being passed down to her. The first day of the revival was exhilarating. People arrived throughout the morning, and by noon, the pasture was filled with cars and the tent filled with people milling around and getting reacquainted between sermons. There were just two other girls in May’s Peak of Christy’s age. The revival brought twelve more. They spent every free moment together talking in whispers about being women and everything that meant, and watching the equally large number of boys who came with their parents. All these girls knew many marriages resulted from these revivals, and they watched their older sisters to see just how courting was really done. The preaching during the day was to cleanse the souls of the devout and convert the less faithful. The gospel sing was for a different reason. Although the songs were hymns and bluegrass songs with a religious theme, the sing was really pure entertainment. Most of the revival attendees were subsistence farmers. They had plenty to eat and a place to live, but little cash money for extras like records or books. The sing was free and everybody stayed. That night, after a supper of fried chicken prepared by some of the May’s Peak women, the sing began. Christy and her sisters were scheduled at the beginning of the program, and followed a boy’s trio from Wabash. Pastor Jackson introduced them as the Snelling Sisters. Christy sucked in a deep breath and followed June onto the rough-sawn lumber stage. They would sing “Rock of Ages”. Christy looked out at the mass of people under the spreading canvas and her heart nearly jumped from her chest. She hadn’t counted on so many, and they all seemed to be frowning. Finally, she spotted a kindly looking man in the first row who smiled when she caught his eye. Christy locked her eyes on the man as soon as the piano accompaniment began. Their performance was good except for when Evelyn faltered a little on the second verse, but Christy was pleased. The crowd had applauded for a long time, much longer than for the trio from Wabash. The friendly man in the front row had watched her through the whole song, and gave her a smiling nod of approval when they had finished. Partway through the performances was a half-hour break for refreshments. The women who hadn’t helped with supper had spent the afternoon making cakes, cookies, and candy. At the back of the tent was a long table of the same rough planks as the stage. It was loaded with crocks of steaming coffee, hot chocolate, iced tea, and cold milk as well as plates heaped high with sweets. Christy selected a glass of tea and two cookies. On the way back to her seat, she came face to face with the man who had watched her sing. “Miss Snelling, I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your singing. Your sisters are pretty good, too, but you’re the pick of the litter.” Christy blushed. “Thank you, Sir.” “No. Thank you. By the way, Honey, what’s your name?” “Christine, Christine Elizabeth, Sir.” “Well, Christine Elizabeth, after everybody gets done singin’ what they planned, some of us’ll get together and just sing whatever we want. It’ll be kinda late, but it’ll be lots of fun. Would you like to join in?” “I’ll have to ask Granny if it’s alright.” The man smiled and winked at her. “Well, you just go an’ ask her then. I want you to sing with us.” Christy ran to find her grandmother. Imagine! Being asked to sing with the adults. That had never happened at any revival she’d ever attended. Usually, any child under sixteen was whisked off at ten to the homes in which they stayed, girls in one room of the house, and boys in another. One adult stayed in each house to chaperone. Having the children safely in bed freed the adults to enjoy the impromptu portion of the sing, and saved a lot of worry by the mothers of girls not yet old enough to be with boys by themselves. “Granny, Granny. A man asked me to sing with them after everybody gets done. Can I?” “I don’t know Honey. Who is he?” “I don’t know his name, but he’s real friendly. He watched me all the time we were singing.” “Well, can you show him to me?” Christy looked out over the milling mass of people. “There he is, Granny. That man in the grey suit over there talking to Pastor Jackson.” Christy’s grandmother clasped her hand to her chest. “Lordy, child. Don’t you know who that is?” “No.” “That’s James Wilson. He sings in the Crestwood Quartet. Are you real sure he asked you to sing with them?” “Yes, Granny. He said I was pretty good and he wanted me to sing with them after everybody got done. Can I? Please?” At eleven, James Wilson led Christy back on stage and stood with his arm around her shoulder. He’d had to talk to Christy’s grandmother for ten minutes to convince her, but he had. Christy was elated and afraid at the same time. “Folks, this little girl is Christine Elizabeth Snelling. You heard her and her sisters sing before. I think she sings real good, and I asked if she’d come on up here and sing with us. Y’all don’t mind, do you.” A round of applause followed. “OK, Honey. Here we go. D’you know Noah Found Grace?” “I…, no, I don’t.” “That’s alright. Can you read music?” Christy nodded. “Good. Here’s our songbook. You just let us sing the first verse so you hear the melody, and then you join in on the second. OK?” “I – I’ll try.” The piano player began a lightening fast introduction, and it took Christy a few seconds to find her place on the page. She listened to the melody and realized she’d heard it before. Granny sometimes hummed the song while working, although she hummed it a lot slower. She looked up at Mr. Wilson and grinned. She had a little trouble starting out, but once she got the beat, Christy got through the song without much trouble. The next three she’d sung in church, and relaxed a little. She was waiting for the next selection when Mr. Wilson announced they were going to take a break and let the Gordon Brothers sing for a while. He took her by the hand and led her off the stage. “Honey, you did real good. You sing like a grown woman, you know that?” Christy blushed and looked at her shoes. “No. I never thought about it much. I just sing.” “Well, you do. You have good pitch and your voice comes clear and smooth, just like it should. You seem a little tense, though.” “I guess I’m nervous. There’s so many people out there and –“ “Nah, that’s not a lot of people. Sometimes we sing for a thousand; sometimes two.” “Gosh, I’d be scared to death.” “Oh, it’s not that bad. You oughta try it some time. Probably like it. Say, you got any song you really like a lot?” “Well…, I like Amazing Grace. Granny sings it all the time. She says it was Momma’s favorite, too. They sang it at her funeral.” Christy and the quartet did three more songs, and she was starting to understand why people liked them so much. In church, old Mr. Winslow led every song to a regular beat. The quartet anticipated beats sometimes, and sometimes let a beat go by before jumping back into the rhythm of the music. Sometimes Mr. Wilson, the baritone, would do one thing, and Mr. Hastings, the tenor would do the other while their piano player did both at the same time. The result was a unique blend of piano and voice that stirred something deep in her heart. “Well, folks, we’re gonna wind it up fer tonight. Pastor Jackson tells me that Carl Peters, the evangelist from over at Bald Rock, is gonna preach us a sermon tomorrow. I know from experience he don’t tolerate no sleepers in his congregation, so we better get us some rest.” There were whispers and titters from the audience. They knew all about Carl Peters. “We’re gonna do one last song to send you off to bed. This is Christine’s favorite, and I think you’ll like it a lot.” Mr. Wilson turned to Christy. “You just sing your heart out Honey. Sing like your mamma’s listening to you, ‘cause I’m sure she is.” At the end of the familiar piano introduction, Christy began to sing. The first verse of the old hymn sent chills running down her back, and tears blurred her vision as she thought about Mamma. Mr. Ames’ rich bass resonated in her chest and the soft, blended harmony of the other three voices brought her melody to life. Just before the end of the first verse, Mr. Wilson leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Remember, Honey, your Mamma’s listenin’, so sing out.” Christy took a deep breath and began the second verse only to realize she was singing alone. The quartet was softly humming in accompaniment and the piano player was playing even softer. Her voice faltered for a second and she felt Mr. Wilson gently squeeze her shoulder. At his touch, the emotions that had been building in Christy flooded her mind. Momma was listening. Christy felt her there, somehow. Her voice swelled to a richness that surprised her, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she sang the words. Christy closed her eyes and let her voice become everything. She didn’t falter when the quartet joined in and started to repeat the first verse. There was no way to stop herself from singing. She just opened her mouth and the crystal-clear tones flowed out. When the song ended, Christy waited for the applause to open her eyes, but there was nothing but a few sniffs and carefully muffled coughs. She looked at the crowd. Some of the men were nervously fishing in pant’s pockets for handkerchiefs. The women already had theirs and were dabbing at their eyes. Mr. Wilson’s voice startled her. “Folks, I just heard something special here, tonight. I know you heard it too. We owe this little girl a thank you.” There was a clap, followed by another, then another. In a few seconds, all the people were standing and clapping. She sang every night with the Crestwood Quartet, and every night Granny told her how nice she sounded. After the Sunday service, she saw Mr. Wilson talking to her father. A month later, Christy stepped off the school bus and saw a shiny black car parked in front of the house. When she went inside, a man in a suit was sitting at the kitchen table talking with her father and Granny. “Of course, you’d want her to finish school, but she won’t have to live in Nashville. She’ll just have to go there to make recordings. I heard her sing that Saturday night. If things go like I think they will, she’s going to sell a lot of records. I’ll get her some public appearances, too, at fairs and such, but that’ll probably be in the summer, and I’ll keep ‘em as close to home as I can.” The man looked up as Christy walked to Granny’s side. “Ah, there you are, Christine. Hi, I’m Harry Sellers.” And that was how it started. By the time Christy finished high school, she had made several appearances with the Crestwood Quartet, and a few by herself. Her own gospel album had been released. It was titled “Granny’s Little Girl”, and the last song on the record was Amazing Grace. Her first bluegrass album was on tape and being edited. She’d made enough money to buy her own car and to help out her father and Granny as much as they’d permit. The switch from bluegrass to country, one she made a year later, had been easy, and the sales of her first single had soared. Now, she was twenty, and the title song from her last album had just joined two of her others in the top forty. The bus came to a stop and the squeal of the brakes woke Christy. She pulled the curtain away from the little window and saw the skyline of Nashville. This afternoon, she would begin recording songs for her latest album. Now, it was time to get settled into the motel room and get something to eat. She yawned, stretched, scratched her head and got up to dress. The busboy had just left the room when her phone rang. “Christy, this is Harry. Honey, you have to go home right away. I’ve moved some stuff around so you can have a couple weeks there.” “What about my record? Don’t we have to start –“ “Christy…, Oh, dammit, how do I tell you this? Christy, Honey…, your father called me this morning. Honey, Granny is gone. It was last night…. She…, she just slipped away in her sleep. Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t even know she was ill or I’d have brought you back sooner. Your father said she didn’t want to keep you from singing, and she made him promise not to say anything.” The funeral had been nice, if there can be such a thing as a nice way to say goodbye to someone forever. Her father asked if she’d sing Amazing Grace at the end of the service. “Granny loved the way you sang it. She played your record every day you were away. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re the only one who can sing it the way she liked.” After the graveside service came the dinner prepared by every woman in the valley. At eight, Christy walked outside. She needed to be away from everybody and alone with her thoughts. The barn beckoned through the fading evening light, and she could almost see the big revival tent and the people. Christy retraced the steps taken years ago into the big revival tent and up onto the stage. It seemed so long ago, and yet, she remembered every detail as if it had happened only yesterday. When she closed her eyes, she saw not the pasture cropped close by the cattle, but the crowd of revival attendees standing and clapping. Down there, on the right, was Granny, a lacy hanky in her hand and a smile beaming through the tears. Granny's Little Girl “You see her, don’t you?” It was her father. “Yes.” “Did you know she made Harry call her every day so she’d know you were all right? She made him do that until you were eighteen. It was the only way she’d let me sign the contract.” “No. Harry never said anything.” “She made him write that into the contract, too. Didn’t want you to think she didn’t trust you.” “Why now, Daddy? Why did she have to go now?” “I don’t know, Sweetheart. I don’t think we’re supposed to know, really. It was just time for her to go home.” “But I could have done so much for her, now. I’m getting a lot of money for my records and concerts. I could have given her anything she wanted.” “Granny already had everything she ever wanted. She raised her three granddaughters into women and saw them start good lives of their own. That and that little cabin up on the mountain are all she ever cared about.” “The cabin where we used to play house?” “Yeah. That’s where I was born. She ever tell you that?” “No. She just said that’s where she and Grandpa lived before they built the house here on the farm.” “Well, that’s were she brought me into the world. After you left, she had me fix it up. At least once a week, Granny’d go up there and spend the day, well, up until about a month ago, anyway. She said it was her first home, and she might go back and live there someday.” “I think I’ll go up there tomorrow. I know all these people mean well, but….” Her father cradled her in his arms and pulled her cheek to his shoulder. “I know Honey. I miss her too.” The trees and underbrush closely bordered the narrow depressed track on the forest floor, After a half-hour of following the little timeworn trail, Christy walked out onto a small flattened clearing on the side of the mountain. The little cabin was there, it’s logs green with moss and the metal roof and its crooked stovepipe rusted red by the years of exposure. Blue jays flitted from branch to branch of the knarled old apple trees by the porch, and scolded her for intruding on their territory. Christy heard running water and walked across the clearing to the little pool she remembered from her childhood. From the side of the mountain, the sparkling streams of several crystal-clear waterfalls trickled over the rock and merged into a shallow stream. Rocks had been placed across the channel to form a small pool and more birds fluttered in the shallows as they bathed. Pointed depressions in the bank of the pool were witness to the deer that came here to drink every morning and evening. Christy dipped her hand into the ripples and then tasted the clean, clear, spirit of the mountain in the water The door opened easily in spite of the creak of the rusted hinges. Christy walked back through fifty years into the life Granny had left when she moved to the valley. Here and there, Christy saw the marks of her father’s repairs, but for the most part, everything looked much the same as she remembered. The small wood cookstove had been blacked recently and some fresh-split wood filled the rack beside the boiler. There were new ashes on the grate when she opened the door. Christy pulled a chair from the rough-hewn table and sat down. She was ten again. There was the rough-hewn double bed her grandpa had made. One of Granny’s colorful quilts covered it and another was folded at the foot. She and her sisters had used that same bed when they played house. June and Evelyn took turns at being the father and mother, and always used the big bed. Christy, being the youngest, was always the baby, and slept on the trundle bed that hid beneath. The cabinet was still there too, it’s flour hopper and sifter on one side, and plates and cups on the shelves. She recognized the pattern as Granny’s “everyday” dishes. Christy rubbed her finger over the tabletop and felt the deep scratch she’d made on the corner when she was five. Granny hadn’t spanked her for that. She’d just said that Grandpa was watching and would be sad his table had been scratched. Christy had felt more hurt than if she’d been beaten, and had started to cry. Funny, she thought, what you remember from your childhood. She remembered Granny saying that, and knowing Grandpa would be sad, but couldn’t remember ever knowing her Grandpa. She remembered her mother a little, but that was really more of a feeling than a true memory. Memories of Granny were sharp, clear images from her past, images so real she could see them if only she closed her eyes. Granny had been her mother. Granny was the one to which Christy turned for advice and comfort. Granny always seemed to understand. A tear trickled down Christy’s cheek. Granny was…, she was…, gone. “Oh, Granny. Why?” Tears became sobs, and the sobs sapped the strength that had kept Christy going through the last few days. She leaned on the table, her face on her arms, and cried until the stress of the day before finally overtook her and she fell asleep. It was nearly dark when Christy woke. There was no use trying to negotiate that winding trail at night. She’d be lucky not to get lost or fall down and hurt herself. The display on her cell phone said “no service”. Christy hoped her father wouldn’t worry. After a search, she found some candles and a box of matches. In the dim light, Christy pulled back the quilt and climbed into the bed. The feather tic felt new and fluffy. Her father must have replaced the old one she remembered. It had been lumpy and smelled like mildew. The chattering of the bluejays woke her the next morning. She’d forgotten how cool mornings were on the mountains. Christy shivered until she finally got a fire started in the stove and jumped back under the quilt. The crackle of the flames would have eased her back to sleep if it hadn’t been for the knock on the door. “Christine, it’s Daddy. You OK?” Christy opened the door. “Yeah. Sorry I stayed here last night. It got dark, and my cell phone doesn’t work up here.” “I wasn’t too worried. You may be a star, but you’re still a farm girl. I figured you stayed up here. This feller was worried, though, so I brung him up to see that you’re all right.” A familiar face peeked inside the door. “Terry? What are you doing here? I thought you and the guys were doing practice cuts.” “They are. I got a friend to sit in for me for a couple days. I can catch up when I get back.” Her father cleared his throat. “Uh, Christy. I need to get back home. There’s still some things I got to take care of…, Granny’s stuff, and all. Oh, the town women made so much food I’ll never eat it all. I brought some up with me. Figured you might want some breakfast. Uh, yer feller there can stay with us if he wants. He can use June’s room.” Christy watched her father start back down the mountain. In a few minutes, he was swallowed by the trees, and the little clearing and cabin were hers again, except for Terry. “OK, Terry. What gives? How come you’re here and not in Nashville? Harry sent you up here, right?” “He’s pretty worried about you. Said he hoped you were taking it OK.” “Well, you can go tell him I’m fine, and I’ll be back in Nashville in a week or so. I’ll call him.” “Wow, this is a neat cabin. How long’s it been here?” “Terry, you aren’t listening. I said I’d call him. You can go.” “I heard you, but it’s a neat cabin. Who built it?” At first, Christy was aggravated that Terry wouldn’t leave, but talking about anything was better than thinking about Granny and crying. She explained the history of Granny’s first home as best she remembered. All the while, Terry was prowling around, examining the building and furniture. “You see this corner joint? It took a real craftsman to make that. See how it locks itself together? And look at the adz marks. Your grandpa knew what he was doing all right. Don’t see logs that smooth very often in these old cabins.” “So how do you know so much about log cabins? You’re a bass player, not a carpenter.” “I wasn’t always a just bass player. I used to work construction during the day and play in a band at night. One job, we moved one of these cabins. Took it apart and numbered everything, and then moved it to a park and put it all back together. It got me hooked. That’s where I go when we’re not playing. I find someplace with a cabin and go figure out how it’s made. You’d be surprised at how many ways there are. Someday, I’m gonna build me one of these and sit back and watch the world go by. Well, when we’re not playing, anyway.” They made lunch from the food her father had brought. It was that afternoon, while they were sitting on the bank of the pool, that Christy realized it was nice having Terry there. Even though he kept going on and on about tools and how her grandpa must have used them, that took her mind off her loss. She also remembered that it got dark quickly on the mountain, and they needed to start down. “Terry, we need to leave, or we’ll get caught up here like I did yesterday.” “Do you think we could come back tomorrow? I’d like to draw out your cabin and the way it’s made. Maybe take some pictures, too, if that’s OK.” The morning sky threatened rain, but they climbed the trail again. Christy carried Terry’s drawing things and camera. He carried Granny’s picnic basket and a gallon jug of tea. The air was still chilly when they sat the jug in the pool to stay cool. Terry didn’t have a jacket. “Damn, it’s cold up here in the morning.” “You should be up here in winter if you think it’s cold now.” “Yeah, I’ll bet. I think it’s probably pretty, though, with snow on the ground and all the pines around.” “Yes, it is. When I was a little girl, I always wanted to have Christmas up here. Never did, but I thought it’d be fun. I’ll go start a fire. Then you can get warm. There’s a pot in the cabin, and I brought coffee. I’ll make us some.” Terry was absorbed by the cabin, and Christy was amused. He was like a little boy with a new bike. By lunch, he’d measured and drawn out the cabin, and was working on how it was put together. He drew the details of each piece of joinery and made notes. When it was time to leave, he was still measuring and drawing. “Terry, if I were a jealous woman, I’d be jealous of this cabin. It’s all you’ve looked at since we got here.” “Well, I told you I was hooked. Suppose we could come back again? I just need to draw a few more things.” By lunch the next day, Terry had finished his drawings and taken three rolls of pictures. The morning had turned warm, and they ate lunch on the bank of the pool. Christy poured Terry a second glass of tea, put the jug back in the water, and sat down on the blanket. “Well, you get everything you need?” “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for letting me do this, and for being so patient.” “That’s OK. It helped me, too. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have been thinking about Granny all the time, and….” “And?” “I’d have been crying.” “That’s only natural. You miss her. It’s hard to lose someone that close. Harry said she was almost your mother.” “Mamma died when I was two. Granny was all I had for a mother. She took care of me, and…, and taught me…, and wanted me to sing…, and….” Christy sniffed. “Oh, Terry…, I didn’t even get to tell her goodbye or thank you or that I loved her or anything. It hurts so bad.” Terry put his arm around her when she began to sob, and pulled her cheek to his shoulder. “It’s OK, Christy. Let it go. It’ll help.” When she stopped crying, Christy looked at him, then kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Terry, for putting up with that. It was really sweet.” Terry looked at her for a moment. Christy saw the indecision in his eyes. She was about to ask what was wrong when he kissed her on the lips. It was a soft kiss, a gentle kiss, the tentative kiss of a man afraid to do more, but unable to do less. When Terry released her, he smiled. “I didn’t put up with anything. I care about you.” “Since when?” “Since I first saw you. I was in the studio one day when you were just eighteen and still singing bluegrass.” “I guess I don’t remember that. The first time I saw you was when you auditioned for Harry.” “I was up in the booth, waiting for my session. I didn’t come out; I just watched you through the glass. You were pretty awesome, by the way.” “If you liked me so much, why didn’t you come say hello?” “You were really young and I didn’t figure Harry’d let me get close. I’m a lot older than you.” Christy laughed. “You’re how old, twenty-five, twenty-six? My God, you’re right; that’s ancient.” “I was twenty-four, then. There was a big difference between eighteen and twenty-four.” “Harry must not think you’re too old for me. He sent you up here, didn’t he?” “Harry didn’t send me. I told him my dad got hurt and I had to go home for a while. I just wanted to see if you were all right.” “Terry, if you feel that way, why are you always so standoffish?” “I’m just a bass player. You’re the singer. Singers and bass players don’t…, well, we’re kind of in two different worlds, aren’t we? I mean, how would it look? I’m just a hick from a town in Alabama that’s too little to even be on the map.” “Terry, the girl on this blanket with you is not some special person. I was raised dirt-poor right here on this farm. I never had much of anything until I started singing. Just because I have some records out doesn’t mean I’m special. I’m just lucky.” “Christy, you are a special person to me. You sing like a dream, and you’re beautiful, and…,I think I love you. I have since the first day I started in the band. “ Christy kissed him, but this kiss wasn’t tentative. Terry drove back to Nashville the next morning. Christy took the rest of the week to help her father sort through Granny’s things and to see her sisters and their families. After church on Sunday, she drove back to her hotel room in Nashville. Christy still hurt, but she knew it would be better to work than just sit and think about Granny. Terry wanted to keep their relationship quiet, so they would steal away separately and meet at some park or a restaurant to be together. On stage, they tried to keep everything as it had been before Granny passed away, but it was difficult. Every time Christy turned around to look at the band, there would be Terry, grinning from ear to ear. When the curtain fell, the hug she gave Terry lasted longer than those she gave the other guys. If they noticed, they didn’t say anything. Terry gave her an engagement ring the night of their last concert before Labor Day. Christy was ecstatic. She kissed Terry until he pushed her away in order to breathe. “If I’d known you were gonna suffocate me, I’da thought twice about givin’ it to you.” “You just wait until we’re married. Oh, I’m so happy. June and Evelyn both have families. Now I’m going to have one, too.” “Well, you haven’t said yes, yet.” Christy melted into his arms and kissed him again. “How could I say no to a man I love so much?” On the twentieth of December, Christy’s sisters walked down the white runner at the May’s Peak Church of Christ, and were followed by Terry’s four-year-old niece. Little Cindy was very concerned about her job, and delicately dropped the pink rose petals from her little basket. Christy’s father took her arm, kissed her on the cheek, and walked her down the aisle as the Crestwood Quartet sang, “Oh Promise Me”. Terry was waiting at the altar beside Pastor Jackson and grinning for all he was worth. When the Quartet finished, Pastor Jackson stepped forward. “Who gives this woman in marriage?” Her father’s voice was faltering and Christy could see the tears in his eyes. “Her mother, her Granny, and I do.” Christy kissed him on the cheek, and walked to stand with Terry before Pastor Jackson and the congregation. They pledged to love, honor and cherish until death did they part. The women had outdone themselves with the reception. After all, not only was one of their own being married that day; there would be famous artists from the worlds of gospel, bluegrass and country music attending as guests, and they intended to show these celebrities how a wedding reception was done. At three, Christy and Terry drove to her father’s farm in her car. She was proud of the “Just Married” written on the back window. Just as the sun was setting, they stood nervously at the door of Granny’s cabin on the mountain. “Christy, you sure this is all right with you? We could still go somewhere else.” “No, Terry, it was a great idea. I didn’t think you remembered when I said I wanted to spend Christmas up here sometime. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be.” “Well, I guess I’ll carry you over the threshold then.” “That’s supposed to be for our first home, but I’d still like it if you did.” Christy’s father had banked a fire in the stove that morning, and Terry stirred the coals to life while Christy lit several candles and placed them on the table. The cabin began to warm with the heat from the stove, and the candlelight lent an air of intimacy. They ate dinner from the food they’d brought and then sat at the table talking. At ten, Terry banked the fire and added a couple logs to last through the night. Christy blew out all the candles except one. They met beside the bed. When Terry took her in his arms she was shaking. “Not afraid of me, are you, Christy?” “No. Just a little nervous. I, uh, never did this before.” “Neither have I. You got any ideas?” “Well, Granny told me about it, and June and Evelyn, too.” “What did they say?” “June said you would kiss me first.” “I know how to do that. We’ve done it before. Like this?” Christy’s heart raced as his lips touched hers. She put her arms around Terry’s neck and pulled her breasts against his chest. “Mmmm. That’s what she said it’d feel like, only that was better.” “And then?” “Then we get in bed.” “Shouldn’t we get undressed first?” “What Granny said comes next is gonna be pretty hard if we don’t.” Terry lifted her sweater over her head and tossed in on a chair. Christy shivered at the cooler air and unbuttoned his shirt. His bare skin felt so wonderful against her palms, almost as wonderful as his hands felt on her back. Terry fumbled with the catch on her bra and then her breasts slipped from the cups. She shrugged the straps from her shoulders and let the bra fall to the floor. The slight brush of her nipples against his chest hair sent tingles through her body. His warmth drew her to him, to press her body as tight against his skin as she could. Terry kissed her again, and as Evelyn had said to do, Christy grazed Terry’s upper lip with her tongue. When his own tongue touched hers, she felt the tingles again. Terry was slipping her jeans down and she moved her hips from side to side to help him. As they slid down her thighs, she unfastened Terry’s belt and unzipped his fly. Soft cotton brushed her fingertips when she reached inside. Terry groaned when she touched him. She squeezed gently, and he groaned again. Part of him was so hard, yet part was soft to the touch. Christy felt his hands on her flanks, then on her hips, and then against the sides of her breasts. His touch made her weak with desire. Christy stepped away, pulled down Granny’s quilt and the blankets, and slipped into bed. Terry quickly joined her. “You know what? You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” “I’m not a real woman, yet.” Christy pulled his hand to her soft belly. “Make me your woman.” Christy tugged at the waistband of his shorts, and after he’d removed them, lifted her hips to help him remove her white lace panties,. Terry’s fingertips lightly touched the down on her mound, then moved lower. Soft lips met his touch, soft lips that were slightly parted in arousal. He stroked them, gently, as if they were the petals of some delicate flower. Christy made a tiny sound and parted her thighs. Granny's Little Girl Her thighs were smooth beneath his fingers, but not so smooth as the exquisite area fringed by silky hair. Terry stroked, caressed, and fondled her there until Christy arched against his hand. He slipped a fingertip into the moist separation and touched the ripples of secret skin. Christy groaned and reached for him. Inexperience caused her to fumble; experience came quickly and she learned well. As Terry slipped his finger lower and deeper, Christy instinctively raised her thighs. Terry felt warm wetness and ventured further. His fingertip entered her and Christy moaned at the sensation before caused only by her own hand. She reached for his wrist and pulled the fingers higher. “There, Terry…, oh…, yes, there.” She pulled his face to her breast, and Terry circled her nipple with his lips. Christy shivered at the wave that raced from her nipple to deep in her belly. The tightening sensation was wonderful. Terry sucked gently, and the wave was stronger. Her hips lifted from the feather tick and Terry’s finger slipped into her passage. Christy cried out as he slowly rubbed from her entrance back to the little soft nub that peeked from the folds. She cried out again when Terry touched it, and thrust herself into his hand again. She began pulling at him, leading him to kneel between her thighs, pulling him to the center of her passion. At the touch of his hardness, she stopped, pulled his lips to hers and kissed him. “I want you, Terry.” He pressed forward, found he was in the wrong place, then lowered his position, and slipped into her entrance. There was resistance. He withdrew, then pressed in again. The resistance yielded a little and Christy yelped. “Ouch.” “Am I hurting you?” “A little. Granny said it would hurt some the first time.” “Want me to stop? We could try again later.” “No. Just do it. Then the next time will be better.” Terry was cautious. He pushed gently, withdrew at her grunt, then pushed forward again. Suddenly, he slipped past the resistance and deep inside her body. Christy shuddered and hugged him close. “OK, now?” “Yes, it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Evelyn told me something. I…, just go ahead. You’ll see.” He felt her hand moving between them, and then the rhythmic motion of her knuckles against his belly. Christy caught her breath when he withdrew and then pushed himself back inside her. The rhythm of her fingers increased and Christy began to shake. The sensation of her body moving around him was more than he could control. With a groan, he thrust deep and felt the surge race from his loins. He thrust in again, then again and sagged, panting, against his arms. In another moment, Christy cried out and shuddered beneath him. When Terry rolled to her side, Christy put her arm around him and snuggled her body into his chest. “Now, I’m really a woman. I love you, Terry.” “I love you, too, Christy.” They stayed in the little cabin for Christmas Eve. The snow in the pines and the blaze of the cardinals that flew past the little windows were too beautiful to leave. They also enjoyed the seclusion, and the intimacy it afforded. In four short days, they learned as much about themselves as about each other. On Christmas day, they walked down the mountain and joined Christy’s family for dinner. Terry drove them back to Nashville, and a life together, the next morning. Christy and Terry retired from performing a year later. Their first child was on the way, and for Christy, just as for all the people around May’s Peak, family is everything. Now, she, Terry, and their three daughters live in the big cabin he built on that same mountain. Together, she and Terry write songs, and as Harry once said, for a singer and a bass player, they’re pretty good songwriters. Their work is usually somewhere on the charts. Granny’s cabin is still there. Terry keeps it up, just like Granny would have wanted. They don’t use it much anymore. Somehow, it seems as if it still belongs to Granny. Their wedding anniversary will usually find them there, though, a fire in the stove, and candles on the table. They don’t think she’d mind once a year, since that’s where they found each other. Christy does still sing, sometimes, although she can never fill all the requests. Her last appearance was in Bar’s Ford. James Wilson’s grandson was getting married, and James asked if she’d sing with them at the service. Then there’s the revival at the May’s Peak Church of Christ. They still have it, every year, and every year, Christy is there. Her daughters will represent the church at the next one. They’re still small, but Angie, the oldest, has quite a voice for an eight-year-old, and Rachael and Autumn are pretty good too, for only being five and seven. Pastor Jackson says people will enjoy hearing them. They’re going to sing Rock of Ages. The Crestwood Quartet will be there, too. Christy will just be a proud parent until the kids go to bed. Then, she and the Quartet will entertain the attendees until bedtime. Just like every year, their last song will be “Amazing Grace”, and just like every year, James will whisper to her to, “Sing right out, ‘cause your Momma and Granny are listenin’.” Christy will close her eyes and see them both, hankies in hand, and smiling for all they’re worth. *********************************** Thanks for reading this work. Please vote to indicate how much you enjoyed it, and leave comments if you can spare the time. Your votes and feedback are the only way I will know how much you enjoyed my effort, and furnish the only means to improve my writing. Thanks again, Ronde.