I had no idea how far it was to Robert Allred’s house in Boldo. I was expected to be there at 10:00 so I left home at 8:00 am. As 4-H Club president, I was in charge. My job – demonstrate how to make brownies.

            I only went to his house, rather than have members come to mine, as they would in June, because Robert had insisted we meet at his house for the July meeting. I never imagined it would be over three miles there and the same distance back.

            The night before my mother and I had argued.  She had valid arguments, but none that broke the intent of a twelve-year-old. Momma said I couldn’t go. Daddy took the only car we had to work every morning. It was too hot. It was too far for me to walk, certainly too far for a seventh-grader to walk alone.

             I said I must go. Where had I gotten the impression or when had it embedded itself in my mind that if I had a responsibility I had to complete it? Perhaps it was my father repeatedly saying “A man’s only as good as his word.” I wasn’t a man, but I had given my word. I wouldn’t disappoint my daddy, regardless of the heat, the distance and the fact that I would have to walk.

            I insisted that I go. She insisted that I not. How could she say I couldn’t go when what was important was keeping my word? Finally, she said, “Well, walk then” and went back to her sewing. The next morning, I went to the kitchen and gathered supplies for baking brownies.

            When I agreed to be 4-H president, I didn’t know that I would have to host monthly summer meetings. But here I was. I was president. I had the agenda. I had the location. I had to go. I gathered the ingredients: cocoa, flour, eggs and lard. I put them into a paper sack. I added a bowl, a spoon and a pan. Recipe went in last. I set out.

            It was mid-July and hot. My dress stuck to my shoulders and my armpits. My supplies grew heavier with each rise in the road. Lucky the road was paved, I thought. I watched steam rise from the asphalt ahead of me. I stepped on a bubble in the gummy tar to see if the bubble would burst. It did, but I had to tug my foot loose. I had a problem. If I stepped out of my sandal, my foot would be stuck. If I stood there much longer, I wouldn’t be able to pry my shoe loose. Uncle Remus’ Tar Baby story all over again. I had to get off the tar. I stepped to the shoulder, onto dirt that stuck to the tar on the soles of my shoes. Dirt filled my sandals and coated the insides. With each step, sand ground into the bottoms of my feet. That, though, was better than being stuck like a stick to the road. So I hobbled along, occasionally shaking a foot to clean out a shoe.

            Getting to Boldo from Union Chapel seemed to take the entire morning. Perhaps it did. The fact that it was mid-day didn’t help with the heat, but I had given my word.

            I walked on. And on. And on. At one point, the bottom of my sack turned dark and squishy. My lard was melting. I put one hand under the sack and carried it in front of me. My one salvation would be that maybe Robert’s mother had some lard I could use.  Melted lard would be as good as solid for baking, as long as it didn’t drip into the dirt. After a time, it did drip. Not on the dirt, but on my dress. If I had thought Momma would be mad about my traipsing off down a desolate road, she would be livid when she saw my ruined dress. But I had to bake brownies, regardless of the condition of my dress.

            I walked on. Sweat gathered on my face and dripped into my eyes. The salt burned so bad I had to stop and wipe my eyes. I had nothing to use but my dress tail. On such an empty road, I didn’t hesitate to pull up my dress and clean my eyes from time to time.  

            After a long sweating and walking time, I saw “Allred” on the mailbox. Above the ditch that followed the roadside, Robert’s unpainted clapboard house sat up a rise. The wooden door stood open. Of course it would be open. It was Alabama and a miserably hot day. I knocked. No one came. I knocked louder. Still no one. A hound barked from a dog pen in the back. I pulled against the screen. The latch, locked from the inside, held tight. No one was home. I sat on the top step to wait.

            I rested a time then went to the back and drank from a tin dipper at the well. I drank and drank until I over-filled my stomach. Having so much water on an empty stomach forced me to sit a while longer or risk vomiting on the road home. All the time, I thought someone would drive up. “Had to run over to MaMaw’s for milk,” someone would say, and I would reply, “I knew you’d be here soon.” But none of that happened.

            There was nothing left for me to do but go home. I rolled down the top on my sack and set out again. Half way home, the water hit me. I stepped off the road to pee out some of that gallon of water I had drunk. Walking and peeing. And thinking. I tried to come up with something to tell my mother so I wouldn’t have to admit she had been right. Nothing came to me. She’d had no way to get in touch to see if I was alright. I was tired. I’d had nothing to eat. I was hungry. And I had ruined my dress, a pretty dress she had so meticulously sewed. I could have cried.

            I walked in the back door, my hair straggly, my clothes wet and greasy. She met me in the kitchen and never said a word. She glanced past me and gave the clock on the kitchen stove “the eye.” I followed her look. I had been gone all day.  I had hit a new low in disappointing my momma.

            She never asked why I brought back my supplies rather than at least half a pan of tasty brownies. I knew better than to offer to make brownies. The summer passed without me baking any brownies. Momma’s one look had silenced that option.