He lieth under the shady trees, in the covert of the reed, and ferns. Job 40:21
The Magnolia is on the corner of Rose and Faith in Sopchoppy. It's all that remains of the little farm of Emory and Mary Rudd. Where the Methodist Church is now, once stood their wood and tin home. It was the first place I stayed when a little boy and my mother was teaching 4th grade. The Magnolia shaded the front porch where I spent much time in the swing. In the day before indoor everything, the town was quiet. Cars seldom passed by, and when they did, you knew who it was. You could hear far off sounds. The beating of the drums from Mr Burches marching band, the gurgling of flowing well across the street. The Buckhorn New Mt Zion services, that sounded like a Tarzan show, the Wazui coming. The chugging of Mr Wilber Stricklands tractor. Talmadge Crum calling Henry home from the river across the street, though they lived nearly a mile away, her long, drawn out HeeeenreeE!Sound carried, traveled from Laurice's Standard station on 319 all the way back to Mrs Florida Robert’s off Camellia Street. Mr Emory each morning would have the rats he had caught in the barn the previous night in traps lined up on the steps for me to see. He saved his Prince Albert tins and matchboxes, prized to me. He made me a beechwood high chair to eat from. And it's the bread pudding Mrs Mary made that was the favorite thing. It had to be the eggs we searched for daily, for never has her recipe been matched. There came a day, mom did not go to school to teach. I did not go to Mrs Mary's. Looking out the living room window there was this strange black station wagon the likes I'd never seen. That evening I learned of death when we went over for the wake, Mrs Mary in the front bedroom in the bed, hands crossed, like she was peaceably sleeping.
The sound quietly permeated the entire town, a sound I see to this day.
John Clare Stokes
