Throwing Rocks

My father is from Tula Mississippi. Tula is a very small town about 15 miles southeast of Oxford.

If you are familiar with the works of the author Larry Brown, then you are probably slightly familiar with the place.

When I was a child, the whole family would go there 4 or 5 times a year to see my grandparents for the weekend. Keep in mind that a small town in Mississippi is not like a small town you may see elsewhere. Tula was basically at an intersection of two rural delivery routes (I don't think the two roads even have names). There was a general store, a post office, two churches and a cemetery.

As a child, I realized that Tula was already an old city on it's decline (I was a soft-hearted kid). But in other ways, it seemed to be a never-changing place. My grandmother always had fresh vegetables from her enormous garden. My grandfather always had fresh fish that he had caught in the morning before our arrival.

And my dad and I threw rocks.

The road that lead down a slight incline and through a wooded-area to my Grandmother's house was a gravel road. My Dad and I used to stand at the edge of the driveway, find the perfect rocks to throw, and then heave them as far as we could towards an old shed in the field across the way. My futile attempts never would come close to hitting that shed. When my Dad's turn came, I would watch the rock arch gracefully in the air until it fell out of sight. Listening anxiously for the sound of the rock hiting wood, I would wonder if I would ever be able to do it. In my mind, that shed was a mile away and my Dad had the strongest arm in the world.

Everytime I visit my parents, I tell myself that I am going to make the drive down to Tula. The next time I am in Mississippi, I am going to make sure that I go. I want to listen to the sounds of the insects in the trees. I want to walk down to the creek. I want to throw rocks with my dad.