Dirt Roads, Family, and A Crush Worth Remembering
The dust of the dirt road rose around my sneakers as I walked from Aunt Lockie’s house.
My Aunt Lockie—my maternal grandmother’s sister—was one of a kind. To call her “unique” would be an understatement.
She had a gift for finding fun in any situation.
When I was a child, my mother made a point of visiting her regularly.
I looked forward to those trips, not for the parlor conversations, but for the moment I could slip outside to play.
The summer heat always felt thicker there. Her yard brimmed with flowering bushes where bees hummed busily.
There weren’t any toys or playmates, but I never minded. My imagination turned the quiet yard into grand adventures: I was a swashbuckling pirate aboard the Bounty, a Confederate soldier dodging Yankees in the Civil War, or a GI evading Germans in World War I.
The older folks often gathered in the evenings, swapping faded stories of those conflicts—tales
passed down from parents, uncles, and siblings. The actual veterans rarely spoke; some pains, it seemed, were not meant to be relived.
I’d play until I was drenched in the happy sweat of childhood, then burst back into the adult world. “Can I have a quarter?” I’d ask, already eyeing permission to walk to the country store for a Crush. On occasion the request would prompt a group walk but this time it was just me.
That store’s electric chest cooler was a treasure chest. You’d slide back the heavy lid and peer into a frosty sea of glass bottles—every flavor imaginable: Orange, Strawberry, Peach, Watermelon, Lemon-Lime, Blue Raspberry, and more. The real adventure was picking one you’d never tried.
After paying, I’d pop the cap on the counter opener, step outside, and settle into the shade.
A Crush wasn’t for gulping; it was for savoring, like discovering a new favorite song.
Around me, neighbors chatted over their own bottles, swapping local news and the events of the day.
The store felt less like a shop and more like a big, open-air living room.
Once the bottle was empty, I’d return it for the five-cent refund, then spend the rest—plus whatever remained of my quarter—on a candy bar. Zero’s were my favorite. I loved the white fudge covering and the chewy caramel insides.
I’d kick up dust with the white soles of my sneakers all the way back, savoring every bite.
If my timing was right, my parents would be wrapping up their visit just as I returned.
We’d pile into the car while Aunt Lockie stood in the yard, waving until we disappeared from sight.
She lived to be a centenarian, but what I remember most isn’t a list of facts—it’s the easy comfort and love I always felt around her.
That warmth stayed with me into adulthood, surfacing whenever I had the chance to sit and pass the time of day with her.
Some people don’t need many words to leave a lasting mark. Aunt Lockie was one of them.
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