Some years later it was my pleasure to attend that same church. And Walter Cox “carried” me over in his buggy—the same rig in which my mother and my aunt had ridden with him—though the buggy was now, of course, somewhat the worse for wear, as the roads down there are rocky. Fully half that four-mile trip was in the bed of a creek which flowed, clear as crystal, over a rock bottom, between high hills. And when not in the middle of the creek that road crossed and recrossed the stream many times. But the guerilla-preacher—he of the “foghorn” voice — who had so disturbed my mother’s tranquility, was not at the Church to greet me. It was my uncle, one of my mother’s rank rebel” brothers, who stepped down from the pulpit to meet the stranger. And when Walter Cox introduced us—after effusive greetings and some emotional tears from the older man — uncle, with fine Southern accent, said, “I’m powerful proud that Walter here didn’t introduce you before the services. If I had known one of sister Martha’s boys was the congregation I believe I would have forgotten my text.” He stroked his whiskers. “Yes, suh, it would have frustrated me a heap.” Having registered at the Maxwell House—the one that presumably made a certain brand of coffee famous—I attended the Nashville Centennial for three days before looking up any of my relatives. My Uncle Thomas Cullom lived Nashville — but my Aunt Nancy Cullom-Porter had written from Wetmore to my Aunt Harriet Cullom-Lovell at Newsome Station, twelve miles out, of my expected visit—and I went there first, by train. I inquired at the Newsome store for a way to get out to John Lovell’s, five miles up Buffalo creek. Mr. Newsome said, “Just go right down to the mill, the boy there will carry you over plum to his door—you a Cullom?” The boy led out two horses, and I was “carried” over astride a horse to my Aunt’s home, arriving at about four o’clock. And here I met, for the first time, Uncle John Lovell, his two daughters, Emma and Margaret; and of course my Aunt Harriet—not however, for the first time. My mother had told me that we had been pretty good friends in my baby days. Also, I met here the renowned spirit medium Jim Spain, of whom I had heard my mother and my Aunt Nancy tell some tall stories—but Jim got on a horse, rode away, and I did not see him again that day. Jim Spain at this me was about thirty-five years old. He had come to the Lovell home when a young man—and just stayed. I don’t know if he had any relatives; though undoubtedly there was a time when he might have been blessed—or plagued—with kin.