Salem's Daughters by Stephen Tremp

breakfast.
    Debbie’s grandparents, Ross and Erma Dempsey, were also along for the ride. They sat in the back and remained silent. At least for now. Bob knew Erma could change that in an instant.
    Ross, seventy-two years young, was a large silver haired man with a barrel chest who dressed with a vest and jacket. Subtle plaids of various colors were his favorites.
    Erma was petite, at least sitting next to Ross. She always wore a dress and hat of some sort. Bob had never seen her wear anything but solid color ensembles.
    They were fashionable in their own sort of old-fashioned way. Bob thought the traditional couple to be a bit adorable—even with Erma’s dark wit and sharp tongue.
    Three generations all with different surname; Dempsey, Collins, and Stevens out for a leisurely drive in the country on a warm September Labor Day weekend. They filled Debbie’s Ford Explorer to a cozy but comfortable capacity.
    It was mid-afternoon, the sun heading west. Bob felt great as he looked out on the small family farms they passed. It was a serene sight of lush green grass and trees under a dazzling cobalt sky, laced with long, thin, lazy wispy clouds.
    Bob was able to relax. The load of the world pressing down on him for the past three months had been miraculously lifted. He was a new man with a vision and renewed vigor.
    “This is such a lovely drive,” Erma said. “Thank you Bob, for inviting us. This is so much fun.”
    Bob snickered inwardly. You can thank yourself for inviting yourself.
    “Debbie dear,” Erma continued. Bob knew she would carry the conversation. “As you well know, your grandfather and I were born and raised in this very area. Oh Bob, make a right turn on this road.”
    Erma’s voice always tightened when she addressed Bob, then softened when she spoke to Debbie. I — hear — and — obey. Bob cracked a smirk at his internal snarky remark.
    Bob looked in his rear view mirror to see Debbie’s grandparents beaming as they stared out their windows and reminisced about their youth. They were such a happy couple. Bob had never seen them in a bad mood.
    As much as Erma would chide him for being too soft, he did like the woman. She was always there to help anyone in the family who needed it. With gentle kindness to blood relatives and tough love to those related by law not of Irish descent. He was the only one in Debbie’s extended family that fit in the latter category.
    Erma lowered her window. “You can turn the air conditioning off now, Bob,” she snapped.
    Her tone then softened. “You know Debbie, this area has escaped all the surrounding development. It’s really not changed much since we were raised here.”
    Ross spoke. “The only difference are Interstates Ninety-Four and Sixty-Nine now intersecting through it. Fortunately, there are only a few off-ramps between Battle Creek and Marshall, so the landscape is pretty much the same as when we were kids. There are no sprawling sub divisions, box stores, or modern strip malls for miles.”
    Bob could easily picture their era since, like Erma said, not much had changed. He listened as the elderly couple described a magical, enchanted world from an era lost to time. A place he now deeply desired.
    He wondered why he had been so opposed to living in the country. Like Debbie said, there were neighbors within view of each other. Just not so close they could see into your windows like in his planned community.
    “Things were sure different then,” Ross said. “We walked over a mile to school, then back. Even if there was two feet of snow and blistering winds. We’d gather around the wood stove in a one room schoolhouse for our lessons. Kindergarten through fifth grade.
    “All in one class with only one teacher. Mrs. Kipp was her name. I can still see her. A mean old lady with a wart on the end of her tongue. She’d whoop you senseless if you got out of line. I kid you not. This was back when a teacher wouldn’t take guff from anyone.”
    Ross