Trellis Road, Gordon Hill, Tennessee 1997

Thick dust lay on every surface of the attic. Working around old boxes and trunks, two men measured and marked, planning the renovations of the historic, four-story home in middle Tennessee. There were several buildings in the older part of town that were slated for major work but first, preliminary plans had to be drawn and any significant artifacts had to be found and cataloged.
“These walls beneath this section are twice as thick as the rest of the walls in the house. They’re like that down to the second floor, but then they stop. I wonder why,” one construction engineer asked the other.
“Who knows what these folks were thinking when they built these homes. They built them to last, though, that’s for sure,” his colleague answered as he knocked on the ceiling to emphasize his point.
“And they built them for their own families’ needs. No ‘one size fits all’ for them. Each house and building had special features and each special feature had its use. They believed in doing a little work early to save lots of work later on. I’m sure there was a reason for these thick walls.”
“And I’m sure there was a reason for this gun,” came the surprised rejoinder.
“Hey, point that thing some other direction! It could be loaded!”
“No way! No one would leave a loaded... holy cow, it is loaded! What would a loaded gun be doing hidden in an attic floor like that?”
“Is that where you found it? Under that floorboard?”
“Sheesh, now, what kind of family would build a house like this and hide a gun up in the attic above a bedroom with double thick walls?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
* * * *
Rosemont Road, Gordon Hill, Tennessee August, 1895

Millie Beth Beck tapped her foot impatiently on the mercantile floor. She only had the one roll of ribbon to pick up, and this giant oaf in front of her couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted. Millie Beth let out a series of dramatic sighs. When that didn’t work, she turned as though looking at another display while “accidentally” poking the back of his pants with her umbrella. At this, her indecisive victim turned around with a look of irritation that intensified as he took in the smirk on her face. Millie Beth batted her eyes and pretended to look shocked. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. Did I bump you?” Millie Beth asked with just the smallest hint of a taunt. The man, who actually would be quite good looking if he weren’t glaring daggers at her, turned back to the counter. Millie Beth fumed at being brushed off like a pesky fly, so she glared at his back until he finally finished his order and left.
* * * *
“Thank you for picking up that roll of ribbon, Millie Beth. Now I can finish Mrs. Taylor’s dress.” Flora Beck smiled at her daughter. “Oh, by the way, I notice you need to do a little stitching yourself.” Flora pointed out a small slit in the seam of the petticoat where several stitches had split and the two edges had separated. “If you’ll just take needle and thread to this for one minute right now, you’ll save yourself an hour’s work later. As a seamstress, you should understand that.”
Millie Beth looked at her mother. With her eyes, she saw a middle aged, well-rounded matron with several strands of gray in her long brown hair, now curled in a bun at the nape of her neck. With her heart, she saw a lovely but oh, so lonely spirit fighting a desperate battle to carry on with life as normal on a day that must actually cause her terrific sadness.
“This is the third anniversary of Daddy’s death,” her daughter answered, “but all you can talk about is sewing? Come on, Mama. You’ve got to at least talk about it with me. I am twenty years old now, and not a child. I can understand you not wanting to cry in front of your friends or the ladies who come into the shop, but we’re closed for the evening, and you’ll have all day tomorrow to let your eyes rest up. It’s all right to cry in front of your own daughter.”
“I know it’s all right, but it won’t do any good, now will it? Your Daddy is gone. Nothing will bring him back to us.” She caught her daughter’s telling glance and headed off her oft-repeated suggestions. “And nothing will make me want to replace him, either. There’s no sense in looking for another once-in-a-lifetime husband. I’ve had mine. Let some other poor soul find hers. I have my memories and my dress-making business. It’s you who ought to be looking for a husband, not me. At my age, a woman doesn’t need a man. Not if she’s comfortably off, as we are. But you, my dear girl, are not so much of a girl any more. You fix that petticoat so it will be ready for the party Saturday. You are going. Do I make myself clear?”