"That's what Lida Belle and Wes are saying, but I bet, there's more to it than that! Y'all just wait and see!" "Well, goodness," Mama said, "let's don't sit here all evening talking about the Baileys and their problems. And Ward Lawson! Pa always said church is the place to talk up the good—not the bad." Mama poked 'nother piece of wood into the heater. "Vic, read us the letters!" Aunt Vic opened her satchel and took out a thick envelope and her eyeglasses. "Speaking of the bad, I didn't know till I read this letter from Pa that he ever knew that sorry Ward's daddy. But he did. He preached the old man's funeral!" "Mama, when're you—" "Bandershanks, hon, you sit still and be quiet. Aunt Vic's gonna read us a letter from our Alabama cousin and one your Grandpa Dave wrote years ago—before you were even born. Vic, when was Pa's letter dated?" "He wrote it May 7, 1903, just seven weeks to the day before he died. Let's see—Cuddin Lucy headed her letter: 'New Springs, Alabama, November 6, 1918.'" Aunt Vic flattened the pages and began to read. My dear Cousins Victoria, Lovonia, and Nantelle, It is my sad duty to inform you that my beloved father—your Uncle Elijah—passed to his reward some ten days ago. We children have naturally been grief-stricken, but we thank God that He saw fit to take Pa away without pain or a lingering illness. He breathed his last, peacefully. And on last Sunday, we laid him to rest beside Mama in the graveyard at New Springs Church, where he had been a member over sixty-one years. This week when we went through Pa's personal effects, we found a lengthy letter, the last one he had received from your own dear father. It must have been written just shortly before Uncle Dave's death. So I am sending it back to you all, knowing you will treasure it. Parts of the letter are so unusual that I made a copy for my own children to have in years to come. I have always regretted that I never knew your father. I still have hopes that someday I will have the pleasure of meeting all of you kind kinspeople in Arkansas. Would that the distance between us were not so great. Aunt Vic took off her eyeglasses and rubbed her eyes. "And then Cuddin Lucy just goes on to describe Uncle Lige's funeral, and she mentions a lot of our relatives back there—most of them folks I've never heard of. Here, Nannie, you read Pa's letter." Mama took the yellowed, brittle pages. They rattled as she unfolded them. She said, "It's in Pa's hand, all right." Then Mama began to read very slowly. My dear brother Elijah, How good it was to hear from you once more. Through the years your letters have meant more to me than you can ever know, Lige. This time, please overlook my delay in answering. When I relate how matters now stand, you can understand why I did not reply by return post. A great thing has happened to me: _God has offered me death. And I have accepted!_