Nobody Says It's Easy

5

The tinny sounds of mountain songs came out of the small radio and filled the lonesome hours. She dreamed of singing on stage at the Opry and hearing the roaring applause of a live crowd.

Her heart warmed in spite of the cold drafts that blew through the paper-thin walls of her shack on the side of the stony hill. The twangy note of the dobro, the dejected sorrow of Hank, the velvety-smooth contralto of Patsy, and scores of others made her life bearable.

The years had not been kind. 

The burden of raising the twins without a husband was heavy. Her thinning hair was streaked with gray. She parted it severely in the middle and tied it in a bun at the nape of her neck.

No decent man would look at her anymore. No stolen glances shot her way when she walked down the sidewalk beside the tracks where trains supplied the little town.

Her straight posture bent. The steps slowed. She had little to live for and even less to be proud of. But she had the music. 

Those country melodies filled her with an ache for the past and with a longing for the attention of the handsome heir who lived in his father's fine frame house in town.

She watched her boys. Children of passion. Both had their father's hands. Strong fingers, sure and steady. One had his father's head for business. The other had his daddy's cold glint in his eyes – the steely look that chilled her to the core.

Rumors abounded. She must have bedded many men. A slut. Or worse.

She was the example that straight-laced mothers held up to their daughters in ridicule and shame when girls grew up and wanted more freedom.

"Look at her. Just look. That is what happens when you do not obey the high laws," they said.

They didn't know. Their small, closed minds could never imagine. They judged her for what they thought she'd done.

The village shunned her like a leper, yet many would have given a month's wages just to solve her mystery. Who was the father of those boys? Who was that first one who had stolen her virtue? How many men had added to her sin?

The whispers and stories of wanton behavior swirled like an unending tornado around her, but she chewed her old broom straw, hummed her country tunes, and watched the sun rise and set over her beloved ridge.

The evening hours spent in her rag-bottom chair on her small back porch were her favorite times of day. In her lap, was butchers' papers tied with string. She took her short, stubby pencil, glanced out over the mountain ridge, and resumed writing.

When he wishes, he can charm the jewels off a queen. But his sweet words mean nothing. Experience has taught me that hard lesson.