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by Denise White Parkinson “The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.” ~ Kate Chopin “I’m hard to kill.” ~ Jase Le Trip Chapter 1: The Mute The number of people mucking out was low at first but grew exponentially. Every day more folks dropped off the map and/or gave themselves up to whatever happened next. According to scientists, the ongoing diaspora was one of many results of mass trauma. These were not missing persons, exactly; they simply did not want to be found. ...

Daughter of the White River from Michael Mueller Productions on Vimeo.

The Brothers Simpson FADE IN: 1 EXT. SIMPSON ENTERPRISES LLC – DAY A retired couple, the MCCRACKENS, inspect a luxury RV. Their Cobra sports car is parked nearby. BRUCE SIMPSON closes the deal. MR. MCCRACKEN Look here, son. My wife’s dragging me off on this trip. If you do as we agreed, then all’s good. If you don’t, there’s gonna be trouble. Here are the keys. BRUCE Mr. McCracken, your baby’s safer with me than a bug in a rug snug as a bee in your bonnet or a bur under your saddle blanket. I’ll drive her once a week for conditioning and keep her covered the rest. Y’all have a safe trip—enjoy the RV. See you in three weeks. ...

Chapter 1: The River Sisters Everyone in Skunk Holler remembers the River Sisters. Half the town locked their doors whenever they passed by, while the rest of us cheered them on (under our breath). I rode my bike out to the old River Place one time on a dare. Coming down the levee road, I was surprised to see their long gray wooden houseboat set up on the muddy bank, rock-throwing distance to the water (this was before the government kicked out the folks living on the White River). I had pictured their home bobbing at the end of a towline. ...

Snow on the Cedar The Reunion marks the beginning of the Holidays, with Thanksgiving and Christmas and the New Year just around the corner. Camp Doughboy near DeWitt draws families from across Arkansas County, but Dad could remember the old Reunion ground, Camp Fagan, on the lower White River. Camp Fagan was named after a Confederate general; you can still dig up a musket ball on the riverbank there—even cannon balls. That part of the River was known as Indian Bay until a Civil War battle filled the water with dying soldiers and horses. Afterward folks renamed it Stinking Bay. ...

There was a flying ace, a fighter pilot who left Arkansas County to travel the world—Frank Tinker. He was a real-life war hero, a buddy of Dad’s. He used to buzz us out in the fields, zooming loud and low over the farm in his single engine Jenny, laughing. We heard he met a sad fate in a Little Rock hotel—shot and killed over a jealous woman. He was buried in DeWitt with “¿Quien Sabe?” (“Who knows?”) engraved on his tombstone. Folks tended to shy away from scandal, so his name went unspoken. ...

Autumn on the River is busy season. There’s the Reunion at the end of October, but before that comes the sorghum harvest and molasses-making. I was itching to see my first molasses-cooking party—LC said it lasts for days, with music and circle dances and a big spread. School lets out early, perking folks up. Dad liked to broke his back cutting the 10-foot stalks, topped with tassels that have to be sawn off by hand. From sunup to sundown we piled green cane onto the hay wagon, falling asleep as soon as supper was over. My hands blistered and I got behind on the dishwashing—when we ran out of clean pots and pans Dad kept going. He switched to the Dutch oven and built a fire out in the yard. ...

Back at the “dirt farm in Van” as Dad called it, work was plentiful. After bending a dozen nails and breaking a hoe, I was put in charge of the chickens and pond. “Just bring in some eggs and a few catfish or bream now and then,” Dad pleaded. His plan centered on a crop of fast-growing sorghum. We were going to turn it into molasses at the end of the season. Dad was already tallying jars to sell to the general store at nearby Ethel and at Ballard’s Mercantile. He had acquired a mule, so we planted a big garden too. I got used to eating greens, baby taters and double-yolker omelets. Most days I found time to sneak off and see what LC was up to. ...

For the first time in a long while, I looked forward to going to school. Leaving the houseboat early, I walked through the May sunrise with firm resolve: there was a friend waiting on me. The Dupslaffs knew all about L.C. Brown. “He’s the kid on Big Creek that got the wolf,” they chimed. “It’s got red eyes!” hollered the youngest. They described L.C. in voices tinged with awe. When we came in sight of the schoolyard, there he stood: tall and lanky, with a cowlick of black hair that poked up on one side. “Want to go squirrel hunting after school?” was all he said. I spent the rest of the day watching the hands on the wall clock circling slowly around. ...

Momma was buried with the baby in her arms at her kin’s plot in Van, a flyspeck in the Delta near St. Charles. Daddy and I went back to Skunk Holler to tend to his affairs. I wasn’t sure what that meant. He spent a lot of time sitting in his undershirt at the kitchen table, staring at piles of documents, chin in hand, and quit going to his job at the mill. When Monday came around and I had to go back to school, I learned right quick how things would be different from here on in. ...