It has it’s conspiracies, it’s myths, and it’s tough folks that happen to call this place home for many reasons. Riding down the streets of this small village is like taking a place in time and stopping it, never to see the light of the cities that surround it or hear the jets that happen to pass over for touch-n-go’s at a nearby airfield. The pine trees stand tall and sway, as if they are saying a gentle hello to passers-by. The corn grows tall and reaches for the sky, requesting patience from the local farmers. The deer are comfortable in their burrows and the fish swim freely in the muddy dark waters; only a hook and worm are sure to catch a beast which bury in the mud here. The small concrete bridge has replaced the longstanding wooden bridge and the general store, better known as The Trading Post, has all but been updated one time in it’s long life. The floors still creak and the bathrooms are still located outside in their respective buildings but the food is still good and friends are always welcomed, regardless of age, creed, or color. It’s a slow place on the map that has been all but forgotten by the rest of the world.
Years ago, a small woman from Carolina and a burly man from Nebraska decided to call this place home. Setting out to build a life they had longed for years in advance was finally upon them. These old dirt roads of Blackwater were what their future was to be built upon.
With a grandchild on the way, the decaying marriage of the oldest daughter, and a broken marriage unfolding for herself, Patricia found faith in the Lord and requested his hand in her travels through this life.
Patricia’s early life had constantly overflowed with changes and less-than-comfortable alterations that never allowed her to sit quaintly and enjoy simple things in life. Coming from a home of eight farm-raised sprigs including herself, four boys and four girls bound their way into the world raising cane. Sometimes I hear stories about how her sisters would waste the summer days away slathering on corn oil and drinking in the immense sunshine on the banks of a local watering hole. Patricia reminds me that she told them repeatedly “You’ll look old before you even get old!” but yet, they decided they would rather cook in the oil of the fountain of youth as they saw it. The brothers, mischievous as boys are, helped around the farm diligently. Sadly, three of them died early in life and I was only able to meet one of them when I was young; a John Deere mechanic with grease up to his elbows.