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35 Rennie had awakened that morning at the first rooster crow, but she had lain in bed until she heard the birds twittering in the apple tree outside her window. "No use wasting lamp oil by gettin' up before it's daylight," she told herself. Yet out of force of habit she hurried through breakfast. She didn't mind staying alone, but it was so hard to cook for just one person. Breakfast over and the few dishes washed and put away, she went out to the edge of the porch and looked up the holler and then down, noticing each house, checking to see if there was smoke coming from every flue. The twenty-two years since her mother's death had brought very little change to Lonesome Holler. Some had grown old and died. New babies had been born, had grown up and married , and now had babies of their own. But the holler looked much the same. There were a few small changes—one or two new log houses, an extra room on Aunt Nance's old place, a new board roof on Rennie's own house. Of course, Old Kate's house was gone. Good riddance, Rennie thought. One day—Sarah Ellen must have been about five, maybe six—Rennie had noticed that there was no smoke coming from Old Kate's flue. Atfirstshe just thought the old woman was oversleeping, but when four o'clock came and there was still no smoke, she told Johnnie. He and his uncle went to investigate and found the old woman dead. She had just gone to sleep and never awakened. They buried her in the Slone graveyard. No one had ever come to claim anything she owned, and there was nothing worth claiming. The few chickens had gone wild and been caught by foxes. The old dog had followed the coffin to the grave and refused to leave. Rennie had taken food and left it, but the dog refused to eat or even drink water. A week later he too was dead, the only friend Old Kate had had. Her land, what little there was, was sold for taxes. One stormy night lightning struck her house and it burned to the ground, adding more fuel to the ghost stories connected with the place. There were more new graves in the Slone graveyard. Aunt Nance had outlived Rennie's father by only a year. John had now been dead six years. And there was a little white stone just below her father's that read, 'The unnamed son of Johnnie and Betsy Slone, aged one day." Rennie could still feel the softly falling snow as she and Johnnie had stood there watching the little casket being lowered into the ground. She felt the trembling of Johnnie's hand as he clung to hers. Later he had stopped for a cup of coffee with her before going home through the snow to comfort Betsy. They had had three girls since then and Betsy was heavy with child again. The last girl was named Rena Lee. "I added the 'Lee' onto yer name, Rennie, so they would not be sayin' 'Big Rennie' and 'Little Rennie,'" Betsy explained. Betsy and Rennie were still good friends. Betsy was always coming to Rennie for advice, and Rennie went over to help out—when they killed a hog, made soap, canned beans, or anything else that came up. She always went over and kept house for a week or so after each new baby was born. But then, Johnnie always helped her too—dug her coal, plowed her garden. She no longer tried to raise corn, as she now had no cow or mule to feed, just a few chickens. The years had brought less change to Rennie, though, than they had to Lonesome Holler. She was taller, yet the years of hard work had not stooped her shoulders. Her hair was now more brown than reddish. She wore it in two long braids wound around her head like a kind of crown. The only lines in her face were the laugh lines around her eyes. It was a face that showed strength of character, the marks of sorrows conquered and overcome. Today was a day she had looked forward to for a long time, yet now she wished it was just over and done with. She had never gotten used to talking to the brought-on people of the Community Center, except for Miss...
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