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best hunters have accidents, and that Momma, however skilled she may have been, made one careless mistake. They also adamantly argued that Daddy wouldn’t have carried Momma through the woods for two miles if he had killed her. They said a guilty man wouldn’t have put himself through such a chore, that only a strong, enduring love would motivate a man to such a heroic act. Well, at least, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix, proprietors of Hendrix’s General Store, offered me their support when I stood at the counter waiting to pay for the flour, sugar, and lard needed for one Saturday supper.
    Tilting her face to the side, Mrs. Hendrix professed, “Your daddy carried your poor momma through those woods to bring her to rest, bless his heart.” She always placed a hand on her heart when she said this, a convincing, even if unnecessary, touch added to her frequent sentiment.
    The worst part of the local chatter is what they said about Momma, “Crazy Addie was always so careless”, and “how could any man deal with her as long as Hubbard did?”
    I hear d them talk about her being mad, that our adventures throughout Alabama were strange, inappropriate, and unacceptable. They said that Meg and I were better off without her, and maybe the Lowman sisters would show us the proper way for a mother, and subsequently, young ladies, to behave. Some even said that momma had it coming; that they always knew her, “‘wildin’ ways would lead to a tragic endin’.”
    Mr s. Williams shared the most hurtful rumors to a small gathering on her front porch one Saturday morning. Unfortunately, Mrs. Williams was hard of hearing, as one would guess from the bellowing of her radio every night, and didn’t realize just how loudly she spoke. I heard every word crystal clear from my seat on our front porch.
    “You know , I heard Addie Andrews did plenty of carrying on herself! I guess she didn’t want ol’ Hubbard to have all the fun.” Mrs. Williams waited a few beats for the laughter of the small crowd to die down, and then, “Well, why else would she go gallivanting around the way she did? And with those sweet girls in tow? I only pray that our Lord and Savior will forgive her sinful ways and welcome her into His fold.”
    I wanted to yell to Mrs. Williams that Momma didn’t need the prayers of a sad, lonely, old woman, and that no matter how much preaching she did from her front porch, her flock would always be just a bunch of pathetic gossips. I wanted to, but I didn’t.
    I knew they were wrong about her. They were jealous because Momma always seemed bigger, better than Frisco City. She was too special for the confines of this tiny little town tucked away behind the thick pines and gray moss of Monroe County. She was unconventional and adventurous, but loving and everything a mother should be at the same time. If the sun was up, Momma was moving. We always had clothes that fit right; pretty dresses for every occasion, carefully stitched by her delicate fingers. She taught Meg and me how to bake cookies and tend the garden. Our table overflowed every day with scrumptious meals, prepared by her loving hands. The house was immaculately kept, with clean linens and fresh flowers in every room. We never missed Reverend Howlington’s sermons on Sunday mornings, and were reminded of his lessons every time we slipped up.
    S ometimes though, I think Momma got bored of her daily chores. I think the walls of our little house started to suffocate her on occasion. Sometimes, she needed to remind herself that adventures could be found right around any corner.
    “You just have to make the turn,” she would say to me as we rode with the ragtop down , feeling free as the wind whipped through our hair. Momma’s smile was never bigger than it was from behind the wheel, flying down an open road. In my mind, the world belonged to Momma. Momma shined in the center of our lives like the sun, and the rest of us were warmed in her light.
    I had to know how and why