Mr. Coffey presented a written statement to the town, which was shared by Mayor Gregory with the Mitford
Muse. It states that the two-acre plot, which lies on the northeast edge of the Mallory property, contains “five visible depressions in the ground.” According to the statement, the archaeology team did not disturb the graves proper, as no excavation went deeper than necessary to identify the tops of the grave shafts, “and no remains were disinterred.”
Ms. Mallory’s gift of the two acres contains several restrictions.
No remains can be disinterred now or in the future.
No parking for automobiles will be allowed. Any markers the town wishes to erect may be erected. She especially requests that a marker identifying the founder of the town and pertinent dates be included. A walking trail may be created on the property which is largely wooded “with abundant wildflowers.” No admission to the site may ever be charged, and trespassing beyond the site will be strictly enforced.
Mayor Gregory says that town officials are “jubilant” over this act of “unsurpassed generosity.” The council will review costs for improving and marking the site and making it ready for public visitation, possibly in the spring of next year.
The Council will also review the cost of purchasing a shuttle bus to ferry visitors to and from the site.
Coot Hendrick, a town official who has worked to gather data on the site and bring its history to public recognition, said the evidence of five graves rather than one, is a credit to the character of his ancestor, Hezikiah
Hendrick, founder of Mitford. “for obvious reasons, if you think about it,” he said.
Mr. Hendrick stated that he would personally host a small celebration in the town hall for all town employees at noon tomorrow. Cookies and tea will be served. His mother, Mrs. Beulah Mae Hendrick, will sing.
He couldn’t believe J.C. had at last improved his spelling. He checked the story again to make certain he was seeing right, then moved along to the next item.
Town Announces
Fifty Dollar Fine for
Watering Yards
Put your sprinklers away and roll up your hoses.
After Forty days with no rain in Mitford and surrounding areas, CityManager Jim Sherrill has instituted a fifty dollar fine for using town water for lawns, flower beds, or any other outdoor purpose. Residents are also strongly cautioned against using washing machines and dishwashers at peak hours.
“There are no exceptions to the rule,” says Town Manager Jim Sherrill. He informed the Mitford Muse that our water table is 10 inches below normal.
Mayor Andrew Gregory is in full agreement with the decision to impose a penalty. “In view of the seriousness of our water shortage, the penalty is quite lenient. Everyone’s support is needed.”
While Cynthia had an animated conversation on the hall phone, he watched the five o’clock news and scrubbed two potatoes for baking.
“Who was it?” he asked his wife as she trotted into the kitchen.
“Guess!” she said, looking ecstatic.
“Please! I hate guessing.”
“One guess,” she said, just this side of jumping up and down.
He picked up the remote and hit mute. “The mayor decided to send Coot Hendrick to England with Emma, and Emma canceled her trip altogether.”
“Sammy wants to come for Thanksgiving and Lon Burtie is bringing him.”
“Alleluia!”
“Sammy wants to come here, he doesn’t want to see his mother.”
“That’ll take time. But what good news; we’ll call Dooley tonight.”
She thumped onto a stool. “I love good news,” she said.
He forked holes in the potatoes. “What don’t you love, my dear?”
“Labels that scratch the back of my neck, size-eight jeans that don’t fit anymore, and baked potatoes without sour cream.”
“Not to worry. I just found sour cream on the bottom shelf—it has a couple of hours to go before the shelf date expires.”
“Timothy, what’s that sound?”
They raised their heads, listening.
“Can it be?” he asked.
“Rain!” She hopped from the stool and ran to open the back door.
The cool, sweet air flowed in through the screen; the drops pounded the steps and the landing.
“Let’s go out in it!” she said.
“You go out in it.”
“Timothy…”
“You mean out out?”
“Of course! Walking, singing, whatever. Just this once, before we’re old and gray.”
“Kavanagh, I am old and gray.”
“We’ll go to Baxter Park…look, it’s pouring, that’s terrific, I always wanted to do this! Nobody will see us in Baxter Park, not a soul, put on your windbreaker….”
“I’ll need a raincoat,” he said, frowning.
“No, dearest, that’s not walking in the rain! Here, take this…that’s right! Good, darling! Wonderful! You’re the best….”
Not since he was a kid in Holly Springs had he been out out in the rain.
They hit the back steps running and sprinted east on their side of the hedge, shouting like wild things.
He dumped his sopping clothes on the floor of the bathroom and dried off with a towel while his wife took a shower. For his money, he’d just taken a shower, enough was enough.
She stuck her head around the curtain. “I just remembered…”
“What?”
“Today’s our anniversary. Did you forget?”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. I remembered yesterday and then I forgot again.”
“Thank heaven I’m not the only one,” he said, meaning it.
“Should we celebrate?”
“We just did.” He grinned.
He pulled on a pair of worn sweats and, whistling, went downstairs with his dog to pick up where he’d left off.
He set the dial to 450 and was just popping the potatoes in the oven when the phone rang.
“Hello!”
“Hey, Dad!”
“Hey, son!”
“You won’t believe this.”
“Try me.”
“No, seriously, there’s no way you could believe it.”
Was it sheer, unbounded joy he heard in his boy’s voice? Whatever it was, he had never, ever heard it in Dooley’s voice before. It was something like jubilation.
“You’ve won the lottery!”
Dooley cackled. “Yeah, right.” A brief pause. “Lace called me back.”
“No way.”
“I was walking down the hall and the phone rang and I picked it up, like, ‘Hello, Tau Kappa Epsilon,’ and she said, ‘Dooley?’ Man.”
“Man!” he echoed.
“She returned my call,” Dooley said again, as if trying to fully comprehend the truth.
“Never say never.” He was a temple of wisdom, all right.
“It only took her a year and a half.”
His grin was stretching clear around his head. “Oh, well, these are busy times.”
There was brief silence in which each sought to fully digest the miracle.
“Well, hey, look, Dad, I’ve got to go. Catch you later.”
“Alligator,” he whispered, hanging up.
He stood at the kitchen island, looking out to the rain that continued unabated. He’d completely forgotten to tell Dooley about Sammy. Later, he and Cynthia would call and tell him together.
“Timothy…”
His wife came into the room, wearing her bathrobe and slippers.
“You have tears in your eyes, what is it, sweetheart?”
“Life!” he said. “And love.”
He drew her to him, feeling her damp hair against his shoulder. They would talk about the phone call over dinner. It would be a great treat.
Now, he held her close, wordless, rocking her gently in his arms.
Jan Karon, In This Mountain
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