The drive there was long and winding until it turned straight. Then it was even longer. Long, flat straightaways through farm, field and forever. Arrival was like going to Heaven or returning home: Aunt Jackie’s and Uncle John’s farm house surrounded by cattle and hay; Nanny’s place looming stern across the pasture; one bathroom to reach, fight for and lay claim to. After we did our business and corralled all the cousins (there were many), we went exploring. Not even sunset could harness our excitement. We had fences to climb, horses to saddle, ponds to fish, calves to feed, barns to pillage, then sandwiches to scarf and games to play at Nanny’s place.

Nanny was our Daddy’s Momma. She was like Rice Krispies—sweet, light and crunchy in the box then SNAP, CRACKLE, POP when opened and activated. Her home was filled with sunlight and shadows, children and ghosts, especially in the attic. She told us the ghosts were real, either to keep us there or to scare us away. I’m not sure which. We loved her like we loved God, with fear and reverence, most of the time. Unlike the Thomason cousins, we Ramsey kids tested her goodness. She was little and large, fiery and fun. She watched soap operas with us, played Operation and Hi Ho! Cherry-O with us, fished with us and played chase with us—usually while waving her shoe and yelling why can’t you be more like Jackie’s kids? It was good question. We stayed until Nanny and the ghosts had grown tired and the light was low across the pasture. The screen door springing shut behind us, we jumped the back steps and the cow patties toward home.