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The bus’s engine became louder as it approached the stop. Once the bus pulled over to let a group of students out, another group of students waiting on the platform moved closer to the vehicle to enter. Most of the new passengers sat down in the front row of seats. I chose to sit in the back, away from the rest of the crowd. I put my phone in my pocket and gazed out the window, into the adjacent forest. All of the trees were barren, and only a few leaves fluttered around them. Watching them gently sway back and forth filled me with such contempt. These crunchy little leaves will never understand how good they have it. They may be dead, but at least they don’t have to do something, meet someone, and most importantly, they are under no obligation to be somebody. After some time, I began to fixate on my reflection in the window. Out of the corner, I saw a man running towards the bus as fast as he could. It was Adrian, my next-door neighbor, and the only person at this entire university whom I would willingly call my “friend.” As soon as he got on the bus, I waved towards him. “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked. “Ah, grand,” Adrian wheezed. “You?” “Pretty good,” I replied. I moved my backpack so he could sit down. “So, Ed, have you started your research yet?” I grimaced. “Haha, I see. I gotta go to a meeting with my advisor, Janeck, before class. How’s your man, Paul?” “If you must know, Dr. Dickinson is doing fine.” Adrian laughed. “You Americans are so formal. Just call the man ‘Paul.’ In Ireland we have no qualms about calling the professors by their first names.” “I’m not calling him Paul.” “Ok then, how about ‘Paulie’?” Adrian suggested. “No.” I tried to remain serious, but I also couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, I’ll do it,” Adrian teased. “Ok, have fun.” After we got off the bus, we started walking towards the history department. “Jesus, this feckin’ weather,” Adrian complained as he rubbed his hands together. “Heheh, not used to the climate on the other side of the pond, eh ‘Barbarossa’?” I said, gesturing at my friend’s beard. “Good to see the German historian retains a sense of humor.” “Well, that’s because I’m not actually from Germany.” We share a laugh. Soon, we reached the department. I headed for the entrance as Adrian stayed behind to smoke. “I’ll see ya later,” I called out. “Yep!” Adrian waved, and then started fumbling with his lighter. I waved back, opened the door, and headed down the stairs towards my office. Having an office was one of the few things that I could feel proud of, even if it was really just an extra storage closet. Above my desk was a bookshelf with an assortment of texts. Most of them dealt with Germany and the Nazis, in both English and German to help me keep up my language skills. Some of the other books were about Russia, and the rest were about various other topics that piqued my interest. I closed my office door and headed towards the grad student lounge. Two of my colleagues were sitting at a table, chatting about their research. I said hello and sat down. Secretly, I wished that they weren’t there. “How’s the research going?” one of them asked. “It’s going good,” I told them, lying through my teeth. We made small talk. Sometime later, one of my colleagues looked at his phone. “I’m gonna go into the classroom,” he said. I followed him in. Soon enough, more people started to arrive. Adrian came in sat next to me. “Whadda you suppose is on the agenda tonight?” he asked. “Dunno, let’s find out.” I looked around the room at the rest of my cohort. I wanted to have better relationships with each of them, sharing my knowledge and passion with like-minded individuals, and had dreams of collaborating with them on projects that would define a grad student’s tenure. But those dreams never materialized. My worst fear was not saying the right thing or not using the correct jargon which would expose me as an imposter who did not deserve to be here. It didn’t take long for my fears to mutate, and before I knew it, I found myself worrying about my “uncouth and vulgar” interests outside of academics which would cause my highfalutin colleagues to ostracize me. Across the table, two people were having a conversation about Edward Said. I knew of Said, and had a vague idea of what Orientalism was about. In front of me was a perfect opportunity to bond with members of my cohort and ask questions in order to better understand one of the giants of academia. But I was petrified. After all, I should have memorized every word of what Said said as well as every other esoteric scholar before I dared to even think about applying to graduate school. Ten minutes later, the professor walked in and greeted everyone. Moment of truth, I gulped. After handing out the syllabi, the professor asked us all to share how our “projects” had manifested since the end of the previous semester. Each of us shared our plans. I was all the way at the other end of the table, so I had plenty of time to prepare what I was going to say. As I listened to my colleagues share their plans, I became more and more dismayed. Of course, I wished them all the best, and each of their topics sounded interesting, but at the same time, I didn’t think that my topic was as rigorous as everyone else’s. How are you going to hold up against THAT? my conscience nagged me. “And last but certainly not least, Eddie, what's your topic?” the professor inquired. The spotlight was now on me, and I could feel its heat. “Oh, well, um… so over the break I got the chance to look through the files of this guy who got my property taken by the Nazis and when World War II was over, I tried to get it back. Basically, during the process, I was in contact with a senator and I tried to persuade me to pass various pieces of legislation to help American citizens like himself.” “That sounds really interesting,” the professor smiled. “Do you know what you’re going to argue?” I was floored. All this time and I didn’t know how to answer the most important question! “Uh, not sure yet. There’s multiple avenues I could, um, take with this research,” I said, trying to stave the professor off. “Well, that’s why you’re here!” the professor said. I smiled. I know he was trying to encourage me, but on the inside, I was anything but content. Time started to slow down. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes into hours. I tried to focus on the seminar, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. The only thing I could think about was how I made a huge mistake by choosing to go to graduate school. You really fucked up this time. You can’t handle this much work. You’re not cut out for this. Look around you. All of these people are way smarter than you. The only reason you got into this program is because they needed to fulfill a quota and you know it. This is the end of the road for you. Look at the professor. You’re NEVER going to be like me. You don’t have the skills required. What the fuck are you going to do after you graduate. You’re not going to find a job. You’re going to be a fucking loser. Forever. The entire time, I could feel a tingling sensation in the back of my head. The sounds that emanated from the room felt amplified. Trying to sit still became increasingly difficult. I kept fixating on the professor’s suit and tie. Who am I compared to this man, with my cheap moccasins, and my polo that’s way too short, and keeps getting untucked every time I move, and my belt that I had to borrow from my dad because I didn’t have one that looked nice enough? See that man, and his outfit? My conscience teased. He gets to wear that because he fucking earned it. You didn’t earn the right to look nice. You never have, and you never will. I looked over at the clock. Oh God, there’s still an hour left. All I wanted to do was jump out of my seat and get the hell away from here, as far as possible, and never look back. Fortunately, though, I would not have to wait too long. “Alright, if nobody has any questions, then I’ll see you next week,” the professor said. I packed up my belongings as fast as I could and sprang out of my seat. Free at last. Adrian appeared at my office door. “Hey, do you wanna go to trivia tonight?” “Nah, sorry, I got some stuff I need to do,” I replied. Socializing with my cohort was the last thing that I wanted to think about. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I said. I brushed past Adrian and bolted for the nearest exit. Outside, the wind harassed me as I headed for the nearest bus stop. My nerves felt like they were going to pop out of my skin. My head pounded. For a moment, I even thought someone was following me. I reached the bus stop and sat down on the frigid bench. I tried to relax. Class is over, you don’t have to worry. You can go home now and sleep. -No! No you can’t! You have to get working on this research RIGHT THIS FUCKING SECOND! How are you going to manage your classes and your TA responsibilities and your bills and your career and your friends and your family and your wellbeing and- I had to focus on something. But what? Uhh... the bus! C’mon, c’mon, where is this damn thing?! I stared down the street as if that would make it drive faster. Several minutes later, I saw the shuttle round the corner. I climbed aboard and sat down in the closest available seat. My nightmare was over, for now.

I lost my mother in 1969, in one of the hottest and most disagreeable summers on record. The country was mired in protests of the Vietnam War and civil rights unrest rose in magnitude with the heat. While John Lennon and Yoko Ono recorded “Give Peace a Chance” from their Montreal bed-in, Ronald Reagan launched his political career using the Berkeley campus anti-war demonstrations as a target. James Earl Ray pled guilty to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King but that single bigoted bullet couldn’t stop the counterculture’s cascade of change. Young people wanted love not hate, and peace not war. They were fed up, disillusioned, and sought solace in drugs and music. It all came together in one moment of muddy grace in Woodstock, New York. Gathered that weekend in 1969 were the beatniks and the bewildered, the lovers and the losers, the unorthodox and the unwanted; all looking for answers and acceptance from a country that had none to give. ----------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- MONDAY - AUGUST 11, 1969 Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child And I'm a long Yes, I'm a long way from my home ♮Richie Havens, Woodstock 1969 ---------------------------------------------- PAGE BREAK ------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE Looking back on it now, I remember that the idea to run away came to me fully formed as I stood beside Mama’s coffin in my best dress while neighbors and friends milled past whispering that poor Emma Joy Ryder was now an orphan. Not technically, I wanted to argue, but sensing the time and place weren’t right, I ignored the whispers that clung to the funeral parlor carnations. Sheriff Mosby stood at the other end of the coffin. He was Mama’s friend, and sometimes more, as Mama used to say. Mosby had never been a handsome man, but now with the haggard look of grief pulling at his features, he looked older than his fifty years. Miss Snyder, the county social worker, stood at the back of the room in a brown polka-dot dress with wet circles beneath each armpit. She’d cornered me before the service to tell me Mildred Reamer had graciously agreed to take me on as a foster child and for Mosby to drive me right on over there as soon as the service and reception ended. I knew old lady Reamer. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and was known to keep a flask hidden in her marigolds while she gardened. I suspected the money she earned from fostering fed her cigarette and gin habit. The packed church held too many people and Miss Shelia sat at the organ pumping out melancholy music that added to the misery of the day. I stayed strong even as Pastor Chapman recited funeral verses from behind the pulpit. Mama and Daddy both were only children of only children so the smothered sobbing throughout the congregation came from friends and neighbors who were like family but not in the ways that mattered. If I had living relatives, then my fate might be different. Mosby sat still and stoic beside me like we’d made a pact to not fall to pieces in front of an audience. The congregation moved as a pack to the fellowship hall when the service ended and the men hauled folding tables out to the shade trees. Crisp white tablecloths that held a faint smell of strong bleach were spread across the scarred wooden tops. Women in our town only knew one way to set things right when something bad happened and it involved baking tins and casserole dishes. The ladies pressed a plate of food on me with the sanction that eating something would make me feel better. I knew it would not. A full stomach is not an eraser of grief. I left the untouched plate behind the church bell and asked Mosby to take me home. When we arrived, we both stood inside the front door for a full five minutes; just taking in the stillness of the house without Mama in it. We walked down the hallway to the kitchen from habit because that’s where Mosby was most comfortable. He walked to the sink and filled a glass of water to pour onto Mama’s potted geranium that had the audacity to sit pertly on the windowsill. “Mosby, I don’t want to live with Mrs. Reamer. She has two other girls living there and they don’t like me.” He set the glass upside down on the dish drainer and turned to face me. “How do you know they don’t like you?” he asked. “Because they wrote it on the wall in the girls’ restroom. Not just me. There’s a whole bunch of us on the cheer team that they don’t like.” “It will be fine. You tend to grow on a person.” “It won’t be fine. I want to find Daddy. He’ll come home and live with me.” “And how do you propose we do that?” I opened my purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper to place on the table and smoothed down the edges. A simple dove-and-guitar symbol advertised three days of music and peace. “Mama always said that he could be found around loud music and loose women. This music festival is being advertised everywhere.” “Emma Joy, you have no way of knowing if Chase will be there.” “I want to go find him,” I said boldly. Mosby took off his hat and rubbed a big hand across his forehead to knead a spot above his left temple. Mosby had long ears. Ears like a beagle pup so he looked better with a hat. “Chase should be the one looking for you. Not the other way around.” “Well that’s not happening and I need him now.” “And your mama needed him for a lot of years too but he took off anyway.” He placed his hat on his head and pulled it low over his eyes. “You go pack a few things and I’ll wait on the front porch.” I listened to his footsteps and the door bumped softly behind him. I’ll show him. I was sixteen and old enough to make my own decisions. I had given him a chance but now I would do it my way. I pulled all the cash out of Mama’s hiding place, bottom of the flour tin and coated in a fine film of white, and threw some clothes into a sad sack of a duffle bag that used to belong to Daddy. I stopped by the door and looked over at Gertrude, the goldfish that had lived longer than any other, swimming totally unaware in her glass bowl. I grabbed the Tupperware cereal container, dumped the corn flakes into the trash, rinsed it out and poured Gertrude into it with some fresh water. I pushed on the lid, until it gave a little burp of a seal then popped the pour spout at the top for air. I wasn’t prepared to bury anything else; Gertrude would have to travel with me. “I’m ready to go,” I told Mosby, stepping out on the porch. He rose from the rocking chair and took the bag from me. “Is this all you need?” he asked. “It isn’t much.” He nodded at the fish. “I see you’re taking Gertrude.” “I’m not taking much because I don’t need much. I can come home anytime and get more. And I’m sure Mrs. Reamer will have a bowl for Gertrude. If not, then I’ll get one tomorrow.” Mosby accepted my responses and locked the front door to hide the key behind a loose board on the porch. Hollyhocks grew against the base of the porch and stood on strong stems with blooms of pink, yellow, and lavender peeking through the porch railing. Painted white rocking chairs and a comfortable porch swing all held blue and white cushions that Mama made on her portable sewing machine. A wicker side table sat between the two rockers and its only purpose was to hold pitchers of iced tea or lemonade depending on the day and the mood. Baskets of cascading purple petunias spilled forth from all four corners and dropped petals that left little lavender stains on the faded gray boards. Mama and I spent a lot of time out here in all seasons. Fanning ourselves in the late summer heat or curling up under a blanket in the early winter months. Mama’s morning routine never varied. She’d wake, perk her coffee, and bring the mug out to the swing where she sat with one leg curled up under her and the other bare foot gently moving the swing back and forth. “What’s going to happen to the house?” I asked quietly. “No decisions have to be made anytime soon,” he said. “I know Carol paid off the mortgage two years ago.” I wanted to dig in my heels and refuse to leave. Grab onto the porch column with both hands and have to be physically removed kicking and screaming. This is what went through my mind even as I straightened my shoulders and stepped from the porch to the sidewalk. I’ll be back, I promised myself. We got in his sheriff’s cruiser and drove the two blocks to Mrs. Reamer’s house. He pulled over to the side of the street and we both looked at a house that had seen better days. The summer heat had already browned the grass and the black mailbox hunched sharply forward. “The mailbox is crooked,” I said. “Trey Thompson backed into it last week delivering groceries.” Mosby moved his big hands from the steering wheel. A trapped fly flung itself again and again into the windshield before finding the open window and making a mad dash for freedom. “I know that you don’t want to do this, but Mrs. Reamer is good with girls. It will be okay.” “You’re not a girl so you have no authority to know that,” I replied. “And you have no authority on not knowing that. You just need to give her a try. That’s all I’m asking,” he said reaching for the door handle. “You don’t have to walk me in.” I pulled my duffle bag from the floor to my lap. “Of course I’ll walk you in.” “No.” A trickle of sweat slid down my back into the elastic of my cotton panties. “I don’t want the other girls seeing me delivered by the sheriff.” He nodded by way of consent and reached across the seat to squeeze my hand hard. “How about I come by tomorrow evening and we’ll go get a bite to eat somewhere? “That will be fine,” I said automatically, even knowing that I wouldn’t be here. I got out of the car and raised a hand in farewell as he pulled away. I stepped behind a dimpled live oak and watched Mosby’s car round the corner. Across the street, a screen door slammed, and my would-be foster sisters slinked down the stairs to faded aluminum chairs set against the side of the house. They argued lightly and laughed raucously as they shared a proffered cigarette most likely from Mrs. Reamer’s stash. I did not like them. I did not want to become them. This was not my future. I secured my duffle bag messenger style and slipped away through the side streets and back alleys. There was no way around the Methodist fellowship hall since it sat smack in the middle of town, but I stayed behind overgrown azalea bushes. The double doors were still propped open as ladies carried empty dishes and covered cake pans back to their cars. I watched as Thelma Jackson paused beneath the shade of the chinaberry tree to hike her slip up under her skirt, and I pushed back further into the azaleas for fear of being seen. Thelma had brought strawberry Jell-O with a can of fruit cocktail dumped in it but it appeared to be going back home untouched. No one wanted Jell-O when the dessert table had been laden down with peach pies, pound cakes, and Mrs. Cash’s delicate lemon iced cookies. My stomach grumbled a little as I had not eaten earlier, and I realized that I would need food on the road, so I watched until Mary McKinney set an almost-empty platter of fried pork chops on the hood of her car while she returned back to the fellowship hall. I left my duffel bag in the azaleas and crept around the vehicles like it was a game of hide-and-seek. My heart raced as I scooped up the pork chops, still wrapped in wax paper, and scurried back to the bushes to grab my bag and hurry on down the road. I continued through the back alleys until I arrived at Eddie’s Esso Station. I planned to hide behind his trash dumpster until the opportunity presented itself to leave this town. The trashcans smelled of soured milk and sweat bees attacked my ankles with a vengeance that almost seemed personal. When Betty Phillips pulled up and parked toward the back of the building to disappear into the ladies room, I saw my chance. She had been my fourth-grade teacher and was known to have sensitive bowels after eating seeds or nuts of any kind. I sprang out from behind the dumpster and jerked open the car door. The keys dangled from the switch. I tossed my duffel bag on the floorboard and set Gertrude in the front seat. “Hey,” a muffled voice said from the back seat. My head struck the door panel for the fright I received. Jacob Phillips sat up rubbing his eyes and yawning wide enough for me to see that he’d lost his front teeth since I had last worked the kindergarten class during Vacation Bible School. “You woke me up,” he said. “Sorry.” My apology was automatic. He looked around, realizing for the first time that he was alone. “Where’s Mama?” “Bathroom.” Jacob scooted forward, his chubby little legs white against his red shorts. “Your mama’s dead,” he said in the blunt way that only the very young and the very old can do without providing offense. “Something bursted in her head,” he added. “Aneurysm.” I supplied him with the word that changed my life. “Did you cry?” I leaned against the doorframe. “Yes.” “I have a sucker.” From his pocket, he extracted a lime lollipop that had been licked and rewrapped. “No thank you.” I glanced toward the restroom. “I bet you would like an Eskimo Bar though,” I said. He looked at my empty hands. “Do you have one?” I pulled my quilted change purse from my bag and unzipped it. “I have a dime,” I said, handing him a coin. I opened the back door and lifted him out. He stood for a second and readjusted his twisted shirt. His brown hair lay matted and wet against one side of his face from sleeping on the vinyl seat. The door of the gas station opened and Gene Hickman exited, shaking a cigarette out of a new Marlboro pack. “Hey, Emma Joy. Jacob.” “Hey, Mr. Hickman.” Jacob and I each raised a hand in a half-wave. My wave was hurried though, a short choppy slice through the air as I sensed the passing of minutes a conversation would require. “Sorry, the missus and I didn’t make it to the funeral. Marilyn’s bunions are giving her problems and she couldn’t get her heels on.” He pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his front shirt pocket and lit his cigarette, taking one long drag before continuing. “Your mama was my daughter’s favorite teacher, you know. Said she never appreciated Shakespeare until she took Mrs. Ryder’s literature class.” I found the smile that I’d used all morning as others related Mama’s love for printed stories. “Thank you, Mr. Hickman. That means a lot to me.” He opened the door of his truck. “You call us if you need anything, you hear.” The truck pulled away with a flurry of dust and I waited until it left my sight before I grabbed Jacob’s shoulders and directed him toward the front door. “Give the dime to Big Ed and tell him what you want,” I said. He pocketed the dime and didn’t look back. “Stay inside the station and wait for your mama,” I called after him. “And tell your mama that I’ll return it soon.” “Okey-dokey,” he said, one hand over his pocket. The returning something didn’t register with him enough for a reply. I jumped in the car, turned the key, and the ‘69 Ford rumbled to life without hesitation. It still had the new car smell that burned the inside of your eyelids in a scratchy way. Mama’s car sat in Bailey’s garage because she’d forgotten to keep a check on the oil and the thing stalled on us, hissing out smoke and fumes in the middle of Main Street last week. I swallowed back the memory and spread out my marked-up map in the seat beside me. Mrs. Phillips had set the emergency brake so I released it, feeling the brake pedal dip under my foot. I slowed at the stop sign to engage my left turn signal and my fingers tightened around the steering wheel. I was scared to go, but even more scared to stay. I fixed my gaze straight ahead and did not look back in the rearview mirror. Woodstock Georgia had been home to me for sixteen years, but I was leaving to go to a town of the same name for a music festival in hopes of finding my tomcatting Daddy and bringing him home. I wasn’t an orphan. I had a father, even if I hadn’t seen him since he went out for Cheez Whiz ten years earlier. And God knows he may not have been much but now that Mama was gone, he was all I had.