It was a warm summer’s day in Tennessee 1936. June was a special time, there were parties and gatherings, picnics and late nights down by the creek, even more so for Clifford Sadler, as she lazily  rocked back and forth with her tiny newborn nestled against her breast. This would  mark the end to a most challenging chapter in her life.
 After four years of marraige and as many birthings, she was done. Exhausted from long days running the house. Her rarely seen husband buried his time with the most important thing in his life;  his saw mill, the only good thing his father had left him, with it’s constant numbing whine, the sound of money in his ears. It ripped a course through the virgin timber off his own land. Clifford’s land, actually. The most valuablle portion of her country dowery. A piece of the Cassity empire. John Sadler at twenty three, had property. He was important in his own eyes, if in no one elses.
Apart from the mill, his only other love was the taste of that golden amber liquid, flowing down his throat like warm sweet honey. Calming his fears, and strengthening his courage. Corn liquer. Wonderful, exciting, corn liquer. His world looked better through his rumey blue eyes; when he savored the haunting flavor of that forbidden nector, nothing hurt anymore.
 Clifford was more than he had bargained for. At sixteen, she was plump, cute, joyous, and maybe a little smarter than himself. But she was in love with him, and that was a totally new experience for a boy who came from trouble. He had always carried the weight of his family’s misfortune. No different than the thousands of other rural families of the region. But his father was always on people’s lips for his public drunkeness and loud talk. Marrying little Clifford was his ticket to a new life. No one but they were happy about the union. Both families rebelled at the youngsters, but to no avail. Clifford wanted out of that house as soon as she could make it. Clifford was Clifford because her father had wanted only sons. When the first born son arrived, He was nothing to crow about. Willard was  underwight, and puny, The old man could not warm up to him. His hopes were set on the next child. When she arrived, he could not release his desires, and insisted the child carry his father’s surname. And so, besides the ridicule of children, Clifford had to bear the disappointment of the father she wanted so badly to love her.
 Each with their own agenders, the John Sadler family was four years old when Henry Lee was born that warm day in June, nineteen and thirtysix. Henry was the final one. She was now the mother of Ben, Betty, Carol and this little cute boy. The others were a handful. Always left alone, John having tired quickly of his responsibility, wanted no part of his family. As long as he put food on the table and provided for their welfare, he could stay away from Clifford and the kids.
 Clifford was smart. If not the most femine looking girl, she made up for it with a zest for living and learning. Her hands were always working. She made art out of everyday things. From her surroundings she fashioned imitation flowers to decorate her home, and with wit and charm, she made toys for her children from what others might call junk. If nothing else, Clifford was loyal. She might be unhappy, but she would not let you see it. She had a servant’s heart, and the determination of a Kentucky mule.
 The summer passed and the fall was as beautiful as could be remembered. All the signs pointed to a severe winter ahead, but in the comfort of a long indian summer, Clifford continued her canning while she cared for her brood and nursed her new son.
 By January there had been only three days in the past twenty-two where the temperature had risen above freezing. The water had been frozen for the last nine days and the firewood was burning up at an unanticipated rate. The mill was shut and John was filling his time by drinking.
Clifford would come down in the morning to find the fire out, and John cuddled up on the floor next  to a cold stove. On the twenty fourth day of the freeze, Henry began to feel feverish, by two in the afternoon, he had a hundred and four. Clifford forced John out in the cold to get the doctor as fast as he could. He somehow read the terror in her eyes and with strength he didn’t understand, ran off to the barn to hitch a horse for the ride into town. Clifford scrambled to gather the children around the fire as she waited helplessly for the physician to arrive. She couldn’t tell if it was the heat from Henry’s body or the dreaded fear inside her that was keeping her from feeling the everpresent cold. Ben, the eldest of the four children, tried to drag  a large log off the woodpile, but couldn’t manage its weight. It came down on his small foot, causing a howl of pain to escape from his cold, dry throat, startling everyone in the room. Only Henry didn’t jump. Buy then, the fever had reached a hundred and five, and parts of his tiny brain were beginning to die.

TO BE CONTINUED