When my father went to Vietnam in the '60s for his first tour of duty, I was only 9 years old. Even at such a young age, I knew the possible consequence.
Tears and prayer took up many of my waking hours, and it was one of the worst years of my childhood.
But it was also one of my fondest because of the weekends my mother, younger brother and I spent at my Aunt Bert's house in Three Creeks, Ark.
Her home was no grand affair. Its peeling paint gave it the look of a rustic barn. You might even call it a shanty.
Dilapidated front steps leading to a large porch and a torn screen door greeted us, along with Aunt Bert and my five cousins.
There was no running water. You took a bath in a metal wash tub with water that had been hauled from the well and heated on the stove.
A small wooden outhouse sufficed for toilet needs. We considered ourselves extremely lucky if there was store-bought toilet tissue in place of the usual pages of newspaper.
Newspaper had other uses. Crunched tight, it packed many holes in the walls of that old farmhouse, helping to keep out red wasps during summer and keep in the heat during winter.
A stone fireplace in the living room was the only source of heat. The warmth never ventured from that one room.
Two double beds in my cousins' bedroom slept six of us kids — three girls in one bed and three boys in another. Homemade quilts and shared body heat kept us from freezing.
But the house was wonderful in its own special way. Sitting deep in the country and surrounded by hay fields and dense wood, it was a child's paradise.
We spent our days trekking across pastures dotted with cowpies, navigating creek beds, swinging from ropes hung in trees, sliding down a barn's tin roof onto hay piles and playing hide-'n'-seek in skeleton cars junked in the back yard.
Night brought the sing-alongs. My mother and aunt played guitar and sang gospel tunes such as "I'll Fly Away" and honky-tonk hits like "Rattlesnakin' Daddy." When we ran out of songs, we would invent new lyrics for the old ones. Christmas carols were sung year-round.
Food only entered our minds when our stomachs started growling.
When we came to visit, mom always brought an ice chest filled with lunch meat and soda pop.
If we were fortunate, my uncle might have shot down enough copper wire from electric lines to sell for scrap — something we kids were not supposed to know about — and treat us all to a smoked turkey.
Thoughts of sliced turkey fried in butter still make my mouth water.
But most of all I remember the laughter and glee that filled that old shanty at each visit.
Aunt Bert's house, poor though it was, became my salvation during my father's absence. I'll always be thankful for the time we spent there.
Patricia Spork lives in Tatum, Texas. If you have a story to share, send it to "Dispatches from Dreamsville," c/o Joe Murray, Cox Newspapers, P.O. Box 151108, Lufkin, Texas, 75915; email, jmurray@txucom.net . If your article is used, you will receive $25.