The Year at Widows' Creek: The Beginning

            School was out for the summer, and life was quickly becoming dull and boring, especially to the fourteen- and eleven-year–old who were sitting in the backseat of their father’s rusty, sun-faded-blue ’78 Ford pickup truck. All the windows were rolled down because the air conditioner was broken, again. The radio was blaring so that they could hear the music over the roar of the air and the engine. They were on their way to the hospital. Their grandmother had been ill and was finally able to return home.

            They found a parking place and went inside. “Dad, can we stop and get something from the gift shop for Grandma?” asked the eleven-year-old, who had dirty blond hair with bangs that came down to his eyes and freckles across his slightly flattened and wide nose. His father turned and looked at the line waiting for the elevators, then back to his son.

“Sure, Philip, but nothing that’s too big, or we’ll have to make Grandma ride in the bed of the truck,” said his father. Mark ruffled Philip’s hair as they laughed and looked at his sister, who looked extremely annoyed with them both.

“It’s just a joke, Stacy Lynn. Geez, can’t you ever take a joke?” Philip said, shaking his head as he walked over to the stuffed animals.

“I didn’t think it was very funny, snot-face,” replied Stacy Lynn, angrily rolling her eyes at him. Her light brown hair, which she wore up in a ponytail with a white ribbon around it, swished sassily as she walked over to the flowers—and away from her brother.

But he followed. “Stacy Lynn, you airhead, you can’t buy those flowers. The wind will blow them away,” Philip said when he saw what she picked up.

Stacy Lynn turned to their mother. “Mom, tell Philip to leave me alone.”

Rhonda, who had long dark brown hair and a light complexion, looked up from the get-well card she had been reading. “Philip, don’t pick on your sister. You don’t have to be rude every time you talk to her.” Stacy Lynn and Philip made ugly faces at each other. Finally, they chose a card and a stuffed teddy bear with Native American clothes on.

            They took the elevator to the third floor, then walked quietly down the echoey hallway to room number 321. Philip’s dad lightly knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a voice from inside the room. The family entered the room, where Grandma Becky stood looking around her with a puzzled expression on her flushed face, and the bangs of her short silver-white hair almost touching her wise, gray eyes.