Chapter 16 #2
I’m simultaneously happy to have learned what I did about Sarah and Isham, especially that they lived only a few hours’ drive away, and sad to still have a million questions about them that can never be answered, and that I’m no closer to having any idea what to do with this Bible.
One school of thought would be: Sarah and Isham probably have thousands of descendants by now.
Family trees start multiplying at astronomical rates once you get a few generations down the line.
So maybe it’s fair to say no one descendant owns this Bible more than another.
And yet—it had to come from somewhere . Someone had to have kept it and passed it down, and passed it down, and passed it down.
That’s when I get another idea. I have, of course, planned to take full advantage of this bountiful Wi-Fi and do a social media check while I’m here.
I intended to create a post with pictures of grapes and blackberries and Queen Anne’s lace, wanting to share more of the beautiful bits of nature I keep noticing around me—but it occurs to me now that can wait.
Instead ... I take a few pictures of the Bible, closed up with its worn leather tab that makes it look like a miniature pouch, and also held open to show the intricate handwriting explaining why Isham is giving it to Sarah.
Along with the photos, I fashion a post explaining that while “away for the summer,” I’ve come across many lost items people have seen fit to mail to the little town of Lost and Found, and that this is one of them.
I ask my followers to share it in case any descendants of the family have somehow lost this historic family treasure.
Then I read it over, asking myself if I really want to do this.
I could end up having to decide this Bible’s fate should more than one person come forward, or I could be at risk of giving it to someone who won’t care for it as they should.
And yet, I think Mabel would approve, so I hit the button to post it.
And that’s when my brain nearly explodes with a fresh new thought. Here I was, criticizing whoever found Liza’s teddy bear for not searching for Liza online—and I can do that! Even here, I have the technology to search for whoever lost the lost items!
I bite my lip at the mind-blowing revelation, though, as my chest goes tight. It suddenly sounds like an enormous undertaking.
Okay, keep a cool head here.
And just ... work on a few key items. See how it goes.
Don’t let it get overwhelming—you have the power to control it.
Like Matt once said, if even one item gets returned to someone who lost it, it’ll be worth it. It would make Mabel’s dreams for the lost and found come true.
I glance back at my post, and already it’s getting a ton of likes and comments about how cool and unique and historic the Bible is.
One comment says how nice it is of me to look for the owner while I’m on vacation.
Vacation. If you only knew. And already it has a few shares—which tells me a lot more are coming.
Maybe I’ll really find the Bible’s owner.
I resolve to take pictures of the teddy bear and a couple of other items to post as well.
All this and a Subway sandwich coming my way, too? It feels like a banner day in my mountain exile.
On the way back, I stop at Mr. Freeman’s with a list of ingredients I need for the blackberry cobbler.
When I arrive home a little later, I glance over to see Matt sitting on his front porch in a T-shirt and blue jeans, bare feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the white wooden railing near the one-eyed chicken. He tosses me a lazy wave as I pass by.
Despite myself, I’m reluctantly pleased to see him get up and start walking my way as I exit the car.
Noticing his bare feet in the grass sends a million thoughts flitting through my head: The insulting regional joke I learned when I moved to Cincinnati about people from Kentucky not wearing shoes.
That I haven’t gone barefoot in the grass since I was a kid.
That maybe just now I ... miss it. There’s something carefree about it, and something that looks carefree about him right now.
“Thought you’d be busy makin’ a cobbler today,” he says, “but you must be gettin’ into somethin’ else good since you look like the cat who ate the canary.”
His old-fashioned phrasing amuses me, especially since I’m in a good mood and want to tell him what I’ve done with the Bible. So I explain it all, adding that I plan to try it with other items, too, to see if it leads anywhere.
He lowers his chin, giving me a look. “Damn, that’s a good idea.” Then he smiles. “Mabel would be happy.”
“I think so, too.”
“First pair of feet you’ve ever seen, Jessie—Jessica?”
Oh crap. My eyes do keep dropping there—I just didn’t realize I was being obvious about it. So I’m honest. Well, partly anyway. “I’m sure you know that in the city they make fun of that, saying people in Kentucky don’t wear shoes.”
He chuckles lightly. “Yep, I’m aware. We’re all backward hillbilly folk down here.”
I squint a little, pondering aloud, “Why does that equate to not wearing shoes, though? I never thought it through before.”
He tilts his head. “Well, my grandma was one of thirteen kids raised a little north of here. They lived on a farm back before most folks had cars, and they only went into town once or twice a year. Each kid got a pair of shoes with the fall harvest money, for school, and that one pair had to last ’em until the next September.
So I guess there were a lotta bare feet, whether to save the shoes for when they really needed ’em or because they wore out.
So ... maybe the real joke is that we were all poor.
” He says it with an ironic grin, and it hits me how cold such ridicule is.
“That’s awful,” I remark.
He shrugs. “Sometimes people are awful. It’s the world we live in.”
I say nothing for a moment because it’s true, and sad. “This is ruining my good mood,” I finally tell him.
“Guess I shoulda worn shoes over,” he says with a wink. Those winks of his—sometimes I feel them in my belly, or my chest. It’s getting a little unnerving.
“Well, what’s on your agenda now?” he asks.
Are you trying to spend more time with me, Matthew Cordray? Well, nope. No way, José. Yesterday brought us too close for comfort. So I gesture toward the house. “As you pointed out, I’ve got a cobbler to make. Blackberries, here I come.”
“Good luck.” Then he asks, “Hey, did you have some for breakfast like I told you?”
“Indeed I did.”
“And? Was I right? Tell me they weren’t delicious.”
“They were. Delicious.” Though I don’t like the way I feel as I say that particular word while looking into Matt’s eyes. So I add, “See ya,” and go inside.