A Whisper in the Wind

My dear cousin Brian sent me copies of articles he had found which first appeared in a Tahlequah newspaper in 1913. What treasures! News from county communities included quite a few items from Etta. At that time, my mother was seven years old. It was a glimpse into life a hundred years ago.

A hundred years! A century! I find that hard to believe, as I write it because to me, it seems very real, as if it happened yesterday; maybe that’s because my mother told me so much about her life as a child and I almost felt as if I were there. Friends and neighbors visited each other, Levi Latty went to Welling on business, Etta school began October 13 with twenty-four pupils, W. B. Willis (my great-grandfather) purchased a wheat drill, Mr. and Mrs. G. B. Forrest (Uncle George and Aunt Etta) visited Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Barker (my grandmother’s uncle), and quite a few mentions of the Misses Latty (Alice, Susie, Georgia) visiting their friends or friends visiting them.

Life buzzed at Etta. Driving through today, it looks quite different. Of course, the people are all gone. So are the farms, thanks to Tenkiller Dam. Even the Latty’s house and barn are gone. Sometimes, I wonder where it all went. It was there, a place on the map, very much alive, very busy and thriving. Not a footprint remains of the people; and, sad to say, the number of family who actually remember being in Etta when my grandparents lived there, is dwindling. Soon, we will not have firsthand accounts of those who remember Ma and Pappy Latty. All we will have are those newspaper articles, like Brian sent, or the books about Etta.

Sometimes, I wonder if I went to the old home place, got out of the car, sat down on those rock steps leading into the yard, and listened, would I hear the voices of long ago? Would I see Pappy coming in from the fields with his mules Barney and Jude? Would I hear Ma call her family to supper? They lived and worked, laughed and cried, endured tragedies and rejoiced in triumphs, and moved on, leaving a lasting impression on my heart. But sometimes it’s good to borrow them back for a bit, and remember.

I weave memories and bits and pieces of the past into my books. Whatever I do, or think, or love is influenced by my heritage, even the mysteries; because, after all, who doesn’t enjoy a good puzzle to build a story around?

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