Crossing Purdy Creek
by
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“Who lives there?” I asked, pointing. “There’s a man up there, and he’s watching us.” I started to wave at him, but she swiftly reached for my hand and held it tightly in her own.
“I know,” she said with a convulsive shudder. “He’s been there for a while, and he’s been watching us.”
Mom said, “I know. Let’s go! Come on, boys! Kate, let’s just go home!”
“But he’s our neighbor!” I said with delight. “The first neighbor we’re meeting here! Shouldn’t we go and, you know, just introduce ourselves?”
Her speech faltered, “No, I don’t think so. That is, I thought I might . . . but . . . I don’t . . . think I want to go any farther or meet any neighbors today. Maybe another day. No, I really do need to get back and start supper!”
But it was too late. He knew that we had seen him. The man moved out of the shadows of the house. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he peered down at us, bobbing his head, trying to see. He turned and went off the porch step. Obviously, he meant to speak to us. We all stood waiting. We stood watching.He looked angry.
I glanced up at my mother. Her face had suddenly paled, and her breathing had become shallow and rapid.
He came with a lumbering, arthritic gait. He shambled down off the yard and crunched across the gravel drive and down the road. Then, when he was able to see us clearly, he halted abruptly. He stood there for a moment, scowling. Looking intently at us, he moved again, coming closer—closer still. He stopped. And he just stood there in the road, staring, as though astonished. He put his hands on his hips. His chin was set. His lips were firmly pressed together.
He was an old man, but he was a bulky individual with a heavy torso and wide, youthful-looking, muscular shoulders. He had a farmer’s permanently-reddened, leathery skin under several days’ growth of beard. The thin mole-gray hair needed cutting. It curled around the ears, and wisps fell untidily into the old man’s eyes. The face seemed set in a permanent scowl. A red kerchief dangled out of one pocket. Dressed in denim overalls and a checked, long-sleeved flannel shirt, he resembled a large quarrelsome scarecrow. “Hello!” Mother said in a friendly voice, and she smiled at him.
She was no longer pale. Now a deep flush had spread over her face and neck. I could sense the tremor in her body, yet she appeared calm, and she held her head high. She steadily returned his gaze. She stared straight back at the livid face before her. Her arms were firmly around her three children. And her lips also were pressed firmly together. Her chin was set, every bit as firmly as his—yet without anger.
I smiled at him and blurted out, “We moved here. We’re your neighbors.”
I gestured in the direction of our house.
The old man slowly peeled his mesmerized eyes away from my mother’s face. The malevolent gaze fell on me. He looked me up and down, piercing me with watery, faded blue eyes.
What was the problem? Why did he dislike us? He carefully scrutinized each of us in turn. Then, without a word, he threw his hands up and out toward us in a gesture of dismissal.
“Bah!” he snorted, and he turned around and started to hobble back up to his house.
“Let’s go,” Mother said quietly. She scooped Michael up and led the way back home. We were amazed by this man’s odd behavior.
“What a strange person! He already hates us. Why?” I asked.
And the boys both asked, “Why?”
“What did we do to him to make him mad at us?”
“Nothing!” she responded firmly. “We didn’t do anything to him!”
“But why would someone be so rude to a new neighbor? He doesn’t like children?”
She swallowed hard to control the tremble in her voice.
“I don’t know what makes people like that! But . . . well, it’s a free country, and we have a right to be here, and here we are, and here we will stay!”
She put Michael down then, telling him, somewhat curtly, that he was a big boy and he could walk the rest of the way. I looked up at her with blunt surprise, and she turned to put her arm around my shoulders.
“You have a right to be here! Don’t ever forget it! We own our house, and we have a right to be here!”
And she shook me a little, for emphasis, and her eyes were moist, and her mouth trembled. Shocked by her reaction, both boys were very subdued.
We reached home, and Mother suggested that they take a little nap, and they responded with rare compliance and were soon asleep. A peculiar silence descended upon the house. I ended the afternoon by curling up with a book. Mom quietly worked in the kitchen, rolling out and cutting dumplings for supper. After their nap the boys glided noiselessly down the front stairs.
My father came home energetic, optimistic, and whistling. He was briskly washing his hands at the kitchen sink, and he said happily, “Mmm! It smells good in here!” Then he leaned in to give Mother a kiss, and he looked into her eyes. They were two wells of raw emotion, and his face fell. And he asked uneasily, “What’s going on around here? Why is everyone so quiet? What happened today?“
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About the Book
A story that strikes a chord deep in the heart and speaks to the values and emotions of us all, Crossing Purdy Creek is the life-affirming, intricately-woven account of an older woman coming to terms with her past.
After her mother’s death, Kate begins to experience an uncomfortable, inexplicable yearning to revisit the place where she grew up. She is haunted by a strange dream and disturbed by the memories that have surfaced. She cannot ignore the feeling that she needs to go home. Prompted by a friend, who suggests that Kate just might have a divine appointment, she finally returns to the setting of her childhood.
The farmland of Ohio has changed a great deal; where fields of corn and wheat once stood, there are now streets, homes, and businesses. Most of the old families are gone. Kate questions the wisdom of her trip. But then she locates a familiar face, and an old friendship is rekindled. In the process she discovers some amazing information about her life.
The account that follows is a touching family drama, a story of unconditional love in the face of rejection and condemnation. It is a story of uncommon courage and healing in the face of shame, loss, and heartbreak. It’s an inspiring story of God’s leading.
Reverberating with notes of tenderness and victory, Crossing Purdy Creek reminds us that God surely has a purpose for every life.
About the Author
Mary has a bachelor’s degree in special education and is a full-time licensed optician. She is a wife, mother of three, and grandmother of six. Mary lives and works in Fort Myers, Florida.