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Page 14 · column 6 of 6 · from the scan, no model involved
ceries in a white, cloth sack. Often, Dad would drive him, but Uncle Willie walked to Bradford’s store for his weekly groceries on many occasions.
When Uncle Willie got back, and before I went home, I was presented, usually, with a nickel for sitting with Aunt Bessie, and sometimes a dime if I had helped with some simple chores, such as picking up sticks in the yard, sweeping off the porch or filling the water bucket from the spring. Like others in the area, their land had been cut into two pieces when the new road (522) came through, and their only source of water, a constant flowing spring by a huge poplar tree, was now on the other side of the new road.
Uncle Willie and Aunt Bessie were laid to rest just behind the Flint Hill Methodist Church. But, like my great grandfather, Robert Brady, and his wife, Mary, I have been unable to find where Lyle was buried.
Looking back on it now, I don’t know why I sometimes hid behind that stove. I wish I hadn’t. I should have gone willingly. But, you know how kids are.
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