The Anonymity Keeps Me Alive

by Pamela Holt

They multiply.

Another, then

Another.

Mirror flashes, sun-blind morning.

1500, 2500, Ford, GMC, 4x4, never-ending, a snake of white against the dark asphalt.

I look and see,

No identity.

Luminescent.

They sit.

I walk row to row—the sea of white never parts.

The rental is just a rental.

I have no skin in the game.

I just look for my white truck in the masses.

They are all the same.

I cannot find mine.

All the same.

The color white blinds my sight.

Which one, which one, I sigh.

In the parking lot, beneath the sun, grazing cattle,

All the same.

Dried mud on the glass,

Paper on the dash,

Dents like dimples on tailgates.

No engines, no voices, just the soft ping of cooling metal.

Sun dips low—shadows stretch.

There it sits.

The engine rumbles—high gear, air blowing, rocks tumbling. I’m ready to roll.

Along the trail.

Along the drive.

The anonymity keeps me alive.

Weaving through the Pines

The longleaf pine tree stands tall and majestic throughout the Gulf Coast. However, it almost became extinct due to overharvesting. A few weeks ago, I traveled to Fort Mims in Stockton, Alabama, and I saw a few of these beauties that, according to their size, could have been saplings when the massacre happened inside the walls of that sacred place. I wrapped my arms around the trunk. With my gator-sized arms, there was no way I could reach around the diameter of this two-hundred-plus-year-old tree. I wanted to feel it. I tried to listen and magically hear its history: the fire, the war whoops, the screams of terror. This sapling was there. Of course, I know that this is impossible. But I still needed to try.

The base of longleaf pine at Fort Mims, Stockton, AL

I'm writing my next novel. It is about the tragedy of the Creek Indian War of 1813-14, which began on August 30, 1813, with the massacre of the people inside Fort Mims. Delving into who was there, why it happened, the era's culture, what caused the trouble, and the resolution of the war bequeathed to me a love and desire to know even more about these people.

It all began in 2016 when I saw a movie and realized I needed to research and tell a story I had learned about in Mrs. Linda Dunn's fourth-grade Alabama history.

The blockhouse at Fort Mims in Stockton, Alabama

Researching this story made me desire to know everything. Most important for me is to tell the truth from all sides, not just the side written in our history books. The story of the Muscogee and why the Red Sticks took up their war club must be told so that everyone will also know the whole story.

I'm excited to share my adventures: trudging through the underbrush, snapping photos, and trying to make a video someone can understand. I hope you understand.

Send me your thoughts and suggestions. I'd love to hear from you.

Behind the Fence

---

My dream came true. My name is on the spine of a novella.

In truth, I began the story a few months before. I traveled back to my hometown and drove around my old neighborhood, remembering incidents from my childhood. As I passed by Mr. Deacy's house, I recalled how kind he was to all of us; children in the neighborhood regularly stopped by when he sat on his front step, and he listened. He listened to our tales of the day, good or bad. He offered Cokes, candy bars, and peanuts sitting out for anyone who needed refreshments from the school bus.

I drove down the road and saw where our friend Brian lived. His house was the coolest in the neighborhood. He had a basement for a teenage lounge with a spiral staircase. My brother spent many hours listening to rock music and playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Around the corner, my best friend Adryne lived behind Mr. Deacy, and I secretly climbed his fence to shorten my trip. Her older sister's bedroom was in the basement, and she and I played there many times, her sister oblivious to our imaginary play.

At the edge of our neighborhood, the boys had a dirt track next to a creek where they gathered regularly and raced their BMX bikes. This was unusual to most neighborhoods, I thought. How idyllic. Adryne and I spent one Saturday when we were about twelve walking the creek for hours. My mother was livid because we came back past dark. But what a day that was for us.

While thinking back to those days, I told my husband about these adventures. While laughing, almost to tears, I realized what a unique neighborhood that shaped who I am today. My mind drifted, and I saw in my mind's eye my brother and his two closest friends riding their bikes down our road. Thus, Over Mr. Deacy's Fence became a story.

---

The corner of Lowery Drive and Pope Drive in Hueytown, Alabama. Photograph by Alexandra Love, 2022.