THE PATH TO HOME

Monday, April 27, 2009 THE PATH TO HOME by Carol Smith 2009 Reality was like a sore that never healed for Frank late on this day in July 1870. Sitting beside the dirt road, tired and hot for hours, he was hoping to get a ride. Very few horses had even passed by him today, mostly others like himself walking down the road toward the next town, or house. He had stopped standing, and stopped walking. He was tired. Overhead, huge ominous thunder clouds loomed. He could smell the rain in the air. It would be a wet, cold night. How long had he been without a home? Was it three years? Home had at one time been in Bavaria, Germany. His parents then had a small two room house with the out house behind it. But, the Bals family had been happy before the war. They had grown vegetables and grain and raised a cow and pig. The forest had provided wood for heat and cooking. He and his sister, Maria had been happy living at home with their parents, helping out. There was shelter, and food, and water and most importantly, there was family. Today, it all was a distant dream. His parents were dead from the hardships caused by the army burning their home. His sister, well, he hoped to find her alive someday. She had been taken by the Prussians, probably to northern Germany. At eighteen, she was vulnerable. More reasons that so many from their area wanted to remain separate from the north. He had been shot and left for dead, but had survived with the help of a friend. He no longer knew where that man had gone, or even if he was alive. Right then, the dust from the road blew into his face, and onto his hair, ahead of a wooden wagon pulled by an old, thin horse. The only hope of ever getting clean again would be to find a river or lake he could bathe in again. The old man driving the horse motioned for Frank to climb into the back with the potatoes. So he did, willingly. Where the man was going didn't matter. It just mattered he didn't have to walk another step today. Later, Frank awakened to a cold rain pounding him. They were pulling off the road near a wood building. Both men got out and ran into what turned out to be a one room building. Many others people were crowded, sitting around inside. A small woodstove was lit in the center of the room, and some were eating a vegetable stew. It smelled delicious, and the warmth felt good as he swallowed big gulps from a cracked dish. Someone handed Frank a blanket and he sat down against an empty spot on the wall. Others were already sleeping sitting up, leaning on one another. A younger man spoke to his father. "Papa," (Now, that was a good word.) Somewhere a woman was crying, and a baby was fussing. More families in danger of dying. At first light Frank awakened to the voices of men and women and children. Someone yelled to him to join them at the farm to pick vegetables. There was no pay, except the place to sleep and the free fruit of their labor at the end of the day. Suddenly, Frank had the feeling he was at home. Home where he could stop and eat and work and perhaps someday find the strength to look for Maria, and a better life. Perhaps after the war Frank might even start a family of his own. One that would last. Posted by Carol Smith (calicocarolj) at 7:10 PM