A little fresh air and sunshine were just what I needed. I left well supplied with leftover pecan rolls, and even the lack of adequate directions and a maze of twisting, curving, poorly marked country roads did little to dampen my spirits. I wandered through the hills, taking in the landscape of clear-running streams and craggy limestone bluffs towering high over the road. At a river crossing, I slowed on an old bridge, listened to the music of the tires clicking over the weathered wooden deck, sending a soft ping, ping, ping along the rusted metal girders. Near a farmhouse in the distance, a trio of young boys were wading and skipping stones. The dappled shade of overhanging live oaks and sycamores slid over their tanned skin as they ran through the water, sending up showers of sunlit drops. For a moment, I had the strongest urge to pull the car off the road, abandon my work, and join them. Laughing at myself, I shook off the notion. I’d finally found Caney Creek Road, which meant I couldn’t be far from the Anderson place.
