Niota
I saw the sign coming up ahead. Cruising along I-75. A plain green sign like all the others that had whizzed past. Morning haze gently drifting upwards as the fog burned off over the heating asphalt. Pine trees giving way only to marked exits. The type where you saw nothing but an empty road stretching off into the distance. The type that made you wonder how in the world anyone out here made a living. Rolling hills. Cows on hillsides so steep that the local joke was they were born with their legs shorter on one side so they could stand up straight.
One mile ahead. I had driven this way several times over the past years. It was hard to believe it had been over 30 since I had been there. Gas Station. Post Office. Small downtown that sprawled all of a quarter mile. Sliced neatly by the rail line. The train had once stopped in Niota. Like so many other small towns. Niota’s dreams had disappeared with the coming of the Interstate I now drove down.
When we came those many years ago, the interstate had not reached this far. We went as far as Cleveland, and then cut thru the country. A two lane road that paralleled the train tracks. Less pine trees, more cows. Farm houses. Small towns. Blue holes and painted barns. Inviting us to SEE ROCK CITY and RUBY FALLS. Visit the LOST SEA. Telephone poles with glass resistors. Warm spring days in the car with my grandparents. A going home trip they made almost every weekend.
We never came into town this way. Couldn’t even see it from here. Over on 309 there was a gas station. You turned right at the light to get to down town. Large Oaks with untrimmed branches hanging down. Lots of shade. Not many air conditioners. Small houses. Some 100 years old with double porches. Large magnolias that spoke of the age of the houses. The old train depot closed and dusty. Baggage wagons still on the platform in the back. Mail pole where my great grandfather hung the mail for the passing train to snag still standing.
The train still passed then, and the telegraph worked. In the early days the train still had passenger cars. Later it was only freight cars and then mostly coal cars heading south to fire the power plants in Georgia and Alabama. I never knew the entire story of how my family ended up in Niota. I knew my Great Grandfather was a farm hand and sharecropper. I’d heard many of the tales from my Paw. Some as we journeyed northward. Others as we wondered thru endlessly bending back roads that he knew like the back of his hand. Arriving at an old shack that he assured me was the old Moore place where he had once lived. Fed the chickens thru the floorboards then boy…..
My Aunt Mary and Uncle Duke still lived there then. Sharing a house. He was the local school custodian. She worked at the Post Office, sorting mail I think. Duke was an alcoholic. Mary a frustrated old maid. She never married or dated. She was the oldest and took care of her brothers and sisters. Cooked and cleaned. Duke would usually be there on Sunday morning having slept on the couch again. He never ate with us. Someone would come by and pick him up before lunch and off he would go. He always offered to take my Paw with him, but he never went.
I was at the top of the exit before I knew it. I didn’t remember getting off. I didn’t have time for this today. Business meeting to attend. Still an hour north. Turned right anyway and headed east following the small sign pointing me towards Niota. The gas station was closed now. I still recognized its white columns. The red light was now a flashing yellow. All traffic must stop. I didn’t have to turn, just straight across 309 and down the small lane to town.
I laughed as I realized how small it really was topping the hill and entering the town. The small grassy area that was the park was no bigger than my back yard. The lanes were hardly wide enough for a single car. The houses were there, and the trees.
The train track and the old depot. And the houses where my aunt and uncle had lived.
The first house I remembered, and just barely, was my great grandfathers. Complete with outdoor toilet. It was beside the Post Office where he worked in his later years. Three things I remember about him. Going with him to hang the mail, using the outdoor john, and seeing his coffin in the living room of that old house. I remember waiting by the train tracks as the train speed our way. The ground beginning to tremble. The theory was simple. Hang a bag of mail on a pole. A person in the train would grab the mail bag with a hook. Unlock bag, empty contents, and fling the bag out the other side of the train. Quite a sight to see actually. Train was going very fast. Who ever it was, they accomplished this feat in under 5 seconds. Had they taken longer, the bag would have landed in the trees that quickly surrounded the tracks as they left town. I got to run and pick up the bag.
Later my aunt and uncle moved across the tracks. The house was larger than my great grandfather’s place. Had an upstairs. Old and musty. I spent a lot of time up there playing with my Cousin Johnny’s toys. I don’t know why his old toys were there, but they were. Thank goodness. They filled many a lazy Sunday afternoon. Aunt Mary always cooked for us. We would come thru the door and she would put the pot of beans on. They were poor as church mice. Paw must of slipped her some money. I don’t remember seeing him do it, but I’m sure he did. We would have the pintos and maybe a little chicken. Corn bread, potatoes, and usually greens. Everyone drank water or coffee. Sometimes there was cool aid.
Later still they moved back across the tracks into the house that was just beside where my great grandfather had lived. Mary always had cats…lots of cats. They were wild. Almost impossible to catch. The house was cold in the winter. Coal in the fireplace slowly smoldering heat into the rooms. My paw smoked then. So did Duke. Sometimes they actually whittled. They talked low together sometimes in the other room. Both had that slow raspy drawl. At times you’d think they had finished speaking, then they would start up again just raspy whispers carried on the cold smoky air.
That house had the fabled apple tree in the back yard. Mary made apple pie for us using the apples from that tree. You could have poured two pounds of sugar on those apples and they still would have tasted sour. You could smell those pies cooking all day long. When you finally got a piece the sweet/sour taste was wonderful.
I went on across the tracks, and edged my way to the larger house I remembered them living in. Someone did a really good job fixing the old place up. New paint. White and grey with black shutters and doors. The other houses I remembered being in looked tiny across the tracks. Still standing. Still looking old and unkempt. I drove over and parked down the road always. By the old store where Mary sent me to fetch something she needed for Sunday diner. I got out and walked back towards that last house. As I neared it I realized the apple tree was gone. It had been huge even then. Only a stump remained to tell it had ever been there. The power company had cut back the big oaks in the front yard. Wasn’t much shade.
I tried not to stare. Didn’t want anyone to think I was spying on them. I’m sure I did though. House hadn’t changed much, but everything else had. No cats running and jumping in the yard. No apple tree. No shade. There was still a swing on the front porch. Couldn’t be the same one though. A child came out to play then, and I turned and headed back. The old depot was now a history center I saw. Climbing in, I started the car and began to head out of town. Turned left on 309 then right heading back to 75. Over the rise that obscured the small town.
I don’t know how many miles I cried that day. Don’t know how long. Nothing but the sound of the miles disappearing under me. The time continuing to slip away. I shouldn’t have gone back I thought. Should have just left the memory alone. What had I expected to find in that old little town? I didn’t know. I hadn’t planned on going. Had forgotten all about it for so long. I had gone back for a few moments. Thought of things I hadn’t remembered in many years. People long forgotten by everyone. Long dead. Paw, Mary Duke. Remembered by no one now. Past into the next life. Forgotten here. But not by me. It hit me then. I was supposed to remember for them. The miles continued to slip away beneath me. My tears continued to fall. It had been my safe haven then, my escape. A smile began to cross my face. That small troubled boy. Living in his head even then. Riding with his Grandparents to a place where time stood still. Quiet peaceful serene. Listening, learning, experiencing. I was a product of…..
Niota.
