It's Time To Tell

We were still going to Beulah into the fourth generation. Those of us 'grandchildren' who had children divided up the watch duty, so by the time we were grown, the Seghers rule of an adult on the lake bank at all times was in place. One hot summer's day Becky and Gary and I were sitting and watching the young 'uns play. (I don't think we were all on duty, just maybe one or two of us, and the other(s) came down to visit.) Uncle Charles sauntered down and stood behind us, watching with us, and then he said, "What are you doing? When y'all were that age, you were down here playing all by yourselves. There weren't any adults watching."

"We know!" the three of us said together.

Uncle Eddie, you were right.

And once we had gone to spend the night in Ruleville, Skeeter Robinson Road. Gary, Ronald and Becky were all excited. There were ghosts in Doddsville, but as usual, we weren't to tell. I don't think we were supposed to go to Doddsville. They were excited and whispering about it. "These walls have thin ears," Imogene said. I don't know what she heard but we got to go anyway. We even took David, and I don't think we had to, but we might have threatened him not to tell. We went over to Doddsville, and one of them was telling the story about somehow the ghost made the doors of the car fly open, and at the dramatic moment, the doors of the car flew open. No ghost, but a great joke. Then we went back home.

So, the Turners are saying not enough young posters. And certainly not enough of the sibling generation, though Jo, you're doing the sibling gen proud. Don't you think it's time to tell? These walls have thin ears, and we want to know what you did.