A Southern Place Read Online Free Page B

something bound in black leather, the corner of a framed photograph, and a plastic baby toy.
    “What’s all this?” I asked, nodding toward the box.
    “This,” he said as he reached for it, “is our family, condensed down to a shoebox.”
    I didn’t say anything at first. It was like Uncle Cal drifted into another time and place, and maybe if I just let him, he’d take me there, too. He took out what I thought were two books, their bindings identical and old, but not really used. The black covers were brittle and dusty, but the spines bore neither cracks nor lettering.
    “You know what these are?” he asked. “You’ll have one, too, one day—maybe more than one, your mama hopes.”
    I had no idea. “Books?” I offered.
    “Close but no cigar,” he laughed. “These are our high school diplomas, mine and your mama’s.” He opened the first one. The spine made a crisp crackle followed by the soft wisp of the thin tissue he removed from inside.
    “Delores Virginia Mullinax,” he read, handing it over to me.
    I stared at the off-white paper glued inside the book-like covering. It smelled old, like clean linens left too long in an unopened drawer. “Dumas County High School” was printed in fancy old English lettering across the top with “1957” centered below. My mama’s name was underneath the date, and a paragraph in the same style, but smaller, in the middle. At the bottom were three names, signed in blue ink, then typed in black underneath. There was a blue seal reading “FHA” in the left hand margin, and a yellow one reading “Beta Club” in the right. It was the fanciest piece of paper I’d ever held in my hands, and knowing what it was made me feel proud but funny inside. Uncle Cal opened his own, and we both stared at the diplomas like they were crystal balls with special instructions inside.
    I broke the silence. “What does FHA on this ribbon mean?” I asked.
    “Y’all don’t have FFA and FHA anymore?” he asked, turning the paper around in his hand and looking at the backside.
    “I don’t think so,” I said. The couch was minus its springs, and it felt silly sitting with my knees near my chin, but I didn’t care. I was learning about my family. “I mean, I don’t really know. We don’t have many clubs at school, now.”
    “That’s a shame. Probably went to the wayside with desegregation, when they put the two public schools together and so many folks left.” Uncle Cal looked at his shoes and shook his head. “Don’t know what they were thinking, pulling out nearly all the white children and sending them to those little private schools. Drove the numbers down so low I guess there just ain’t enough funding for things anymore, or maybe it’s just no one cares. It’s a damn shame, though. FFA is for Future Farmers of America,” he said, taking a drink off a beer bottle on the crate he used for an end table. “And FHA is for Future Homemakers of America. Back when we were in school, there was a pretty darn good chance we’d end up being one or the other.”
    “I guess so,” I said, not really understanding. The rain pounded harder on the roof and I watched it slant sideways against Uncle Cal’s front window. “Don’t most people go somewhere else when they graduate, to get jobs? ”
    “Nowadays sure, Cajun girl. Small farms are becoming a thing of the past, and on them big plantations, they’ve replaced man with machine.” He reached down and scratched Jerry Lee behind the ears. The dog grunted and licked his chops. “But years ago, they hired labor, lots of it. Callin’ a boy a Future Farmer of America was an honor.” He paused for a moment, his scratching dropping dander on the rug. I could smell dog more than ever now. “And a hell of a lot of fun,” he said. “I learned more about life in FFA than in any readin’ and writin’ class.”
    “What’s a homemaker?” I asked. “A construction worker?”
    “No, sugar.” He laughed and ran his finger