Zachary Peters

Some stories refuse to stay buried. How Things Were is a serialized work of historical fiction — a generational saga that follows one family from the turn of the twentieth century into the shadow of the 1940s. It is a story of ordinary people caught in extraordinary hardship: loss, survival, violence, love, and the kind of quiet endurance that rarely makes the history books.

Loosely inspired by true events, How Things Were does not flinch from the harshness of that era. These were not easy decades to live through, and this story does not pretend otherwise.

Below are the first several sections of the story. They will continue to be posted in the HOW THINGS WERE tab at the top of the page.

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Part One: Dust on the Road

Due to the seething hate for Herbert’s father, his mother had, as quickly as possible, changed her name back to her maiden name after the divorce. At least, that is what Memaw said. His mom came from money in Knoxville, TN, and the family was amenable to having her back in the fold. The prodigal child returned home, as it were. Her family did not care that their prodigal child had a 7-year-old boy of her own.

A few weeks later, the judge denied her request for full custody, so she left Herbert there on the steps of the one-room shack that was their home. She gave him a kiss and a paper with some letters and numbers on it. He knew now that it was a mailing address. He remembered she said, “You can write me here.”

Then her ex-mother-in-law said, “Go on and be gone with ya. Unless you’re going to come to your senses, be off and don’t make this boy suffer anymore.” She was off and gone, Herbert’s young heart shattered. He cried for a week until, one day, it all stopped. The wound had scabbed over, and it would scar.

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The memories were faded, but they were still there in Herbert’s 13-year-old mind. He was sitting on the same crumbling brick steps as when his mother had driven away for the last time. He knew that was the reason he was thinking of his mom. The memories were tangled together with everything around him. The shack behind him was the same, except his father had managed to build on another room for himself.

His father would be in there for days until the moonshine ran out, and he would stumble out in search of money for more shine. He would look at Herbert, nod, and walk out the door. Sometimes, he would come back a few hours later or, more likely, a few days later.

Herbert would sleep on a makeshift bed in the corner of the ‘big room,’ as it was called. There was a small stove with the chimney roughly cut through the wall next to the small bed. During winter, Herbert would try to keep a small fire going. The little stove made it just bearable in the cold, so he could sleep an hour or two at a time during the night before he had to add more wood. During the summer, the stove was only on to cook food.

He looked up and saw dust rising above the trees about half a mile away. A car was coming down the dirt road towards his house. His was the lone house on the road for miles and miles, as far as he knew, and it sat at the top of a gentle rise from the town. The rise leveled off just a few hundred feet before his house, but positioned as it was, he could see all the way to the town after the leaves fell from the trees in the fall.

It was spring now, and the only things he saw were trees and the dust from the road. There was a wave of anxiety that rolled down from his chest to his stomach. Who was it? It was a toss-up on whether it was good news or bad news. Could it just be someone on their way towards Calhoun? Sometimes people avoided the new highway that cut through town to head south. All the old-timers complained about the new road.

He wondered if it was the sheriff telling him bad news again. His dad was in the jailhouse for a few days, or in the hospital? Maybe his dad was dead, and he was alone for good? Worse, somehow, maybe the sheriff was there to take him away to live in an orphanage or something.

Maybe it was the pastor and his wife. He liked them. They brought food and clothes to him and his dad every once in a while. They even took him to church sometimes. His dad never went, but did not care if those “Bible thumpers” took Herbert. “They will teach ya better than I can,” he would mumble.

Herbert liked church. He enjoyed the singing and the old piano, and he really liked the clean, white walls and hardwood floors. It was peaceful, and the people were friendly. Some of the other people in town did not like this church, but Herbert could not understand why.

The dust was getting closer. It might be a school official trying to get him to attend classes more often. He was really behind, and they were always saying, “He was a smart boy and wanted him to learn a little more.” None of that would be so bad, but it put him in an awkward position to explain to them why it was so hard for him to get anywhere. Of course, the teacher already knew his story. They knew his dad. The whole town did.

The teacher would nod and look sad, then leave for the next shack or tent, where the next poor child was waiting. That child might have both parents, or they might live with aunts and uncles. They might have ten brothers and sisters. He wondered if having a brother or sister would make him feel less alone. More likely, he figured it would be worse to be alone with others right next to you.

The wind had picked up. The trees were bending and swaying. They creaked and cracked. The dust that had been lingering over the road for at least a mile blew away.

He made a final guess; it could be his Memaw. She tried to come several times a week to bring food and to clean the best she could with her weak back. He did not know her name. She was just ‘Memaw.’

He could hear the car now, clack-put-clack-put, getting louder and louder. He heard the wheels rolling on the loose dirt, and then he could see the car through the low shrubs and trees that bordered the road near his house. It was his Memaw. Most of his anxiety fell away.

Herbert walked to the car. It took a few minutes to help his Memaw get out and get her things: a basket of food and a wooden box with some cleaning supplies. This was done in silence until she was completely out and settled next to the car.

“Well, little Herbert, I suppose your dad ain’t home?” She asked, every word longer than the creator of the English language had intended.

“No ma’am, he left two days ago, but I think he is at the mill. At least, that’s where he was last time,” Herbert answered. His voice was changing, but it was still small and sweet.

“You’ra probably right. I think the Riddleys have been giving him some work down there.” She looked concerned, “Those boys are trouble, wish your paw would get work somewhere else. I reckon he forgot to bring any food home last time he was here?” She asked.

Herbert shook his head slowly. His Memaw pursed her lips and shook her head in disappointment. She took a sad, deep breath. Herbert could just see the sadness in her heavily lidded eyes, and then she smiled, “Well, I have something for ya. Come on now, let’s get inside.”

Inside, she had Herbert open all the windows and doors as she cleaned up the table they used for the kitchen, dining, and work. It was nothing more than a few scrap pieces of wood, with the table top consisting of some old barn siding. She then had Herbert set the food and cleaning supplies on the table.

The first thing she did was pull out a parcel wrapped in some cloth. She laid it out and said, “Come on, eat this while it’s fresh.”

Herbert timidly picked up the parcel and began unwrapping it. Even before he had laid aside the cloth wrapping, the smell had revealed the contents, sausage biscuits. He smiled, “Thank ya, Memaw.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, but don’t forget to save me one. This place is a mess, and I’m sure to work up an appetite getting it all cleaned,” she said, while taking out some old-looking rags and a bottle of clear yellow liquid. “How you boys make such a mess is beyond me, but it shouldn’t be a wonder, I guess. Your grandpa, God rest him, would have wasted away in filth if it weren’t for me, I guess. Just runs in the family.”

Herbert was only half-listening. Memaw could talk like a stream running down a mountain. She would babble on until the end of time. He had heard the story about his grandfather before.

Herbert was fixated on the biscuit. The last thing he had eaten was a tough squirrel he had managed to kill yesterday morning. He shot it with an old 22 rifle. After he had skinned it, he had burnt the little things to a crisp over the fire. He had found that was the only way he could stomach the animal’s tough meat.

The biscuit, even though it was just barely warm, was soft and moist. It wanted to crumble apart, but it held together tenderly. He tried to slow down to enjoy every bite, but he was so hungry. The first biscuit was gone in just a few minutes. The second one lasted a little longer.

When he finished, he put away the other food items in the lone cupboard next to the wash bucket. It was on the opposite side of the room from his bed. If dad was not around or was in one of his shine-fueled stupors, then the food would last about a week. He was excited about getting some food once a day for a whole week.

When he was hungry, it was hard to focus on anything else. He had heard some kids say in class that if you don’t eat for several days, the hunger pains go away. Herbert was not interested in finding out.

Of course, if his dad had been working, he might have come home hungry. The food would be gone in a day or two, but it would be better than nothing or squirrel. He put the empty basket back on the table.

“…and I tell you something, funny. Your grandpa would take off his work clothes every day in the same spot, and I would tell him, ‘Herschel, don’t leave ’em there. Set them over here, and I will wash them.’ He would grunt, like your daddy does, and say, ‘No need to wash ’em yet,’ and he would pick them back up the next morning on his way to work,” Memaw was saying as she was wiping down the windows.

“What was grandpa like?” Herbert asked. He asked the question often.

“Well, he was like what I was just saying and all, but you know, he was very much like you boys. Your daddy would be just like ’em, but Herschel was not much for the drink.” She stopped and looked at Herbert, her hands on her hips. “That drink is poison, boy. Don’t you ever touch it.” She turned back around to the window and got back to working and talking.

“Your daddy would be just like his daddy if it weren’t for that train that took him. I guess your daddy was your age when Herschel was killed,” she said, standing on the tips of her toes to reach the very top of the window.

Herbert had walked to the stove and started cleaning out the ashes. He had heard the story a thousand times. It was the only derailment ever to happen in Dalton, and his grandpa happened to be right there. Well, his grandpa and some kids who should not have been there. His dad did not like to talk about it, but his Memaw must have told the story every time he saw her. He did not mind it.

It was almost like Memaw was reciting scripture when she told the story, and she seemed to do it without tears or pain. It was just a thing that had happened, and now it was just a thing to be told. Maybe it made her feel better about the way her son, his dad, had turned out.

Memaw was telling the story again, but Herbert was focused on getting the ash out and into the little bucket without making a big mess. When the stove was empty, he took the bucket and tossed the ashes out the back door.

The house was small, and it really only took about an hour to clean it up. Memaw sat on the lone chair in the house and ate half of the last biscuit. She set it down and did not touch it again.

“Oh well, I was sure hope’n to see your daddy, but I guess he is down at the mill with those Riddleys.” She shook her head, “No good. No good.” She stood up, and Herbert helped her to her car. She gave him a loving pat on his head. He saw the sad eyes again, but then she was gone. The dust was rising again, but this time heading away from him and the little house.

He sat on the front steps again, eating the half biscuit that his Memaw had purposely left. The wind blew hard, and he heard the plop of hickory nuts falling from a tree nearby. He guessed he would collect some and have them for dinner, but right now, he just wanted to finish the biscuit.

Part Two: Just Life

Herschel, with a small smile, watched Jean move around the kitchen, preparing dinner. It looked like she was floating from the stove, to the sink, and to the pantry. Her porcelain-skinned hands moving this pot, pouring that cup, and sliding that dish. He had not the slightest idea what she was making, but there was the warm smell of bacon, cheese, and fresh bread.

The floorboards creaked with every one of her busy steps. Need a few more nails, he thought. The sun’s rays streamed in from the big single-pane window he and his neighbor Bob had installed just one summer earlier. Jean liked the window with the curtains drawn wide open. She hated a dark room. She would not stop bothering him about the electricity that was supposed to be coming to town in the next year or so. Herschel did not know about all that.

Something knocked into his legs under the kitchen table. He leaned over and glanced down beneath the tabletop. His little boy was playing with a metal cavalry horse, and he had fallen over onto Herschel’s feet. The boy looked up, his sharp blue eyes bright in the shadows. “Sorry, Pa,” he said.

“That’s okay. You like that horse?”

“Yes, sir, I wish I had about five more,” he said excitedly.

Herschel’s smile, which had never left his face, grew, stretching from ear to ear. The dimple in his cheek expanded from a suggestion of a shadow into a crevice running from his cheekbone down to his jawline.

“What are you smilin’ at over there?” Jean asked, with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Oh, just life,” he answered. He rubbed his son’s hair before leaning back up to look at Jean. She was a small woman. Not so small as to be abnormal, but small enough that from a distance she might be confused for a girl. Her face was soft and round with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Her brown hair fell in curls around her face. She was pleasant to look at in the same way a hill was nice to see beside a mountain. One might prefer one view over the other, but both have their own value.

He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her walking by the station house in Blue Ridge, Georgia. He had jumped off the still-slowing train to catch her before he lost track of her in the crowd pouring off the train from Nashville.

“I’d smile too if someone was cooking me something this good,” she said, smiling.

He stood up and took two big steps toward her. “What else would make you smile?”

She giggled like a child. “Stop that.”

He kissed her, and she kissed him back.

“Let me go, I’m gonna burn the food.”

“Fine.” He loved the way she spoke — that sweet, drawn-out Southern accent. It drew him into every one of her words. “I am going to wash up. Give me a yell when you are ready.”

“Okay, honey,” she said, engrossed in cooking again. He walked out the door.

Part 3: Certainty

Certainty, she thought, who could be certain of anything? She certainly appreciated her mother-in-law, but certainly knew her mother-in-law viewed her with conflicted affection. Marguerite, or Margaret as her mother-in-law called her, watched the Model T pull out of the yard and onto the dirt road in front of the little shack called home. She wanted her mother-in-law to leave, but certainly wanted her to stay.

Being alone was difficult for Marguerite. Her mother-in-law had made it known that she thought “Margaret” may have been too sensitive. “Not used to having to deal with the unpleasantness of life, having come from rich people in the big city of Knoxville, Tennessee.” Yet Marguerite knew that while she had never starved, she had lived through pain, fear, and uncertainty. She had been alone too many times.

Her father was Scottish, and her mother was Italian. Her father had made some money for himself as a book editor and publisher. Her mother sang and played the piano, and though Marguerite had been very young, she remembered getting dressed up for some type of concert or recital to see her mother perform. The memory of her mother on stage, young and beautiful, and her father, sitting next to Marguerite, looking on with love, was ingrained in her mind. It certainly was a happy time. 

Then the war brought home the influenza, and her parents caught it and died. Her father’s grandparents brought Marguerite home with them to Chattanooga, Tennessee. Then they succumbed to the flu themselves just a few months later.

From Chattanooga, she went up to Knoxville with her mother’s parents. They had a large estate. Her widowed aunt raised her on the estate with her cousins. Everyone was kind and loving. While she certainly did not always get along with everyone, she looked back on that time with affection. The busy town, the farms, the river, and the mountains were always in the distance from the balcony of the big house; it was a wonderful childhood.

Even right now, standing on the front steps of the little shack she now called home, watching the dust blow away as the car disappeared down the road beyond the trees, she regretted her stubborn nature. It had brought her from that lovely home to the ramshackle habitat that she was forced to live in now. When she had left, and everyone was asking questions, she had said it was all for love. As of late, she thought it was more for selfish stubbornness. Was it still love, she thought? There were days when the answer would be yes, but now those days were few and far between. 

She had met Junior at a music shop. Unlike the many fuzzy memories of her parents, she remembered everything about that little shop. Just as she remembered everything about the day Junior had walked in looking for a guitar. He had looked young and sharp, curly brown hair, slicked down and to the side, posture straight as an arrow. Then there were his eyes. The eyes had drawn her in just as much as anything else. They were clear and blue, and as her cousin had said, “she was smitten on the spot.” At first, her cousin had said this in a romantic sense, but by the end of the month, the infatuation had become tragic for most of her family.

Oh, how she resented them for their attitudes, their negativity, and even their open hostility toward Junior. Junior had been polite and cordial, but any chance of Junior staying around the family was lost. If only her aunt had not been so mean.

Junior was smart, but without resources. Hopeful, but without a plan. It did not matter to her. Whoever really had a plan? Against her family’s wishes, they wed and moved down to his hometown, Dalton, Georgia. The first year was wonderful. He found some work and toyed with the idea of starting a shop. In the second year, it became clear to her that, while he was smart, that did not mean he was wise. His hopes did not produce. She did not hold it against him; they were still young, and there was still time. Yet somehow he must have sensed something — disappointment, regret — from her. He started to drink.

She certainly hated the drink. He had started to disappear for a day or two at a time every couple of months. Her mother-in-law knew this, which is why she started making periodic checks on Marguerite. Marguerite understood and appreciated the gesture, but could not help but feel slightly annoyed. Annoyed at what, she thought? Annoyed that her shame was known. Her husband was a drunk.

Did she love him? Certainly, sometimes.

Her mother-in-law had walked in, smiling, with a small basket of food. Marguerite must have looked unwell; she felt unwell because her mother-in-law immediately asked, “Are you feeling all right? Now I don’t need to be gettin’ sick now.”

“Oh no, I am just a little tired,” she had said.

Her mother-in-law looked closely at Marguerite. She asked, “When was your last time of the month?” She said it delicately, almost a whisper, her eyebrows raised.

Marguerite said she was a little late, but felt like it had to be soon.

Her mother-in-law had simply put the basket down and said, “Well, I certainly think you’re pregnant.” She had looked pleased with herself.

The pronouncement struck Marguerite like a warm gust of wind. The wind that blows before the storm. It is warm and moist. It feels better than the heat of the day. It is refreshing, but you know the storm is coming.

Certainty, she thought, what is certain? She certainly wanted Junior to be home, and she certainly wanted to love him. She watched the last of the dust on the road blow away, and she went back into the house and lay down.