A small town

So, the other night I was at Melvin Harvey’s house, eating gumbo. He’s a local banker. His dad, Melvin Sr., and my dad, Ray, were big friends when they were young men. They were all country boys, and went rodeoing all the time. It was a different world. At Melvin Jr’s house the other night, he and I listened to my dad tell us stories from the old days, about the generations of friendship between the Harveys and the Drehers. When my dad was a small boy, his house burned down. Mr. Fletcher Harvey and Mr. Jerome Harvey turned up and helped him rebuild the cottage. It’s still standing today, 70 years later. My grandfather had helped other Harveys build their houses here in the country. In fact, Melvin Jr. said that the Harveys, the Daniels, and the Drehers all emigrated to this part of Louisiana from South Carolina, looking for land for dairy cattle. We are all deeply involved with each other. We are all deeply implicated in one another.

I have nearly reached the 46th year of my life without thinking of these connections. I am glad to have them aware to me now. “You’re living in Sicily,” says my Sicilian American friend, enviously.

The roots, they’re very thick here.