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Show 13 Marysvale. The Sevier River meandered through it just west of the house, a two-room log house, where I was born. The house was almost hidden in the midst of an orchard which, without a doubt, was all that was left of Eden. Apple boughs swooped almost to the ground and sunlight filtered down through gauzy blossoms of apple, cherry, pear, and plum, the pastel tints of peach blossoms, crabapple, and tender green. I defy anybody to resist being a poet in such an atmosphere, especially since every kind of bird native was there in full force, warbling their heads off from morning till night. It was in this fairy kingdom I found myself alone, choked by its beauty, before I was three. I had to do something to weld it to me forever, so I picked apple blossoms and put them in my hair, in the buttonholes of my dress, in among the laces of my shoes. It was not enough, so I sang my song, making up words and music as I went along. It was welded, all right. I remember the words and the tuneless little tune to this day. It was not all Eden to Mama, however. Her fear after losing Tommy was not assuaged by Eldon getting his finger caught in the hay rake where it was almost severed. Mama heard him scream and when she disengaged his hand from the gears the little finger of his right hand hung back along his wrist by a piece of skin. Mama, frantic with ignorance, fitted the little finger into place, put splints on it and it grew back, though it was always a little stiff and a little crooked. It shows on our baby picture, taken when I was three, he was six, and Macel one. He was dark-eyed and sober, Macel spitefully petulant, but I, dear little sprite, was laughing, |
