Of course, all these events happened many years ago.  Paw and Maw still run the little farm down on the creek, though Pollen Bend has grown into a sizeable town now, with a pizza parlour, three banks, one of those newfangled supermarkets and a real Town Hall. 

My path in life got diverted from my destiny as a farmer just like Paw, when Miss Taylor discovered my talent for story telling, obviously honed by years of keeping Jeb informed, or rather misinformed.  She worked hard on me until my reading and writing skills improved to the point where I was deemed worthy of inclusion in a  special journalism course run by her uncle, Brandon Taylor.  Now I’m a freelance journalist, and you can see my by-line in most of the newspapers in Mississippi, and some in Alabama and Arkansas too.

Jeb, as expected, grew up to be a vet, but not a country vet like old Doc Harkin.  Nope, he became a professor of Veterinary Science and ended up running the Memphis Zoo.  He married his chief assistant, and at latest count I was an uncle to a fine boy and two pretty girls.

Sadly, Mindy Lou took up with Billy Joe Fitch, my childhood best friend, who was far too old for her and who drank too much.  He was always in trouble with the law, and during his frequent vacations in the county jail, she took on some questionable jobs to keep body and soul together.  Maw helped out as much as she could, but it was never enough, and Billy Joe and Mindy Lou just kept getting dragged further and further down, until now they live out near the town dump, just across from the black section of town.  They have a parcel of brats running around barefoot and in rags, and we don’t seem to have much to do with them any more.

Mrs Bennett didn’t return to teach at our school, finding looking after one child more to her liking than trying to cope with my friends and I.  Miss Taylor never did leave, and eventually took over from Mr Bodean to become Headmistress, the first female in Mississippi to do so, or so she claims.  I never had the heart to investigate.  After her shaky beginning, she had become a firm favourite with most of the kids and their parents, being strict, but fair, and she beat the other candidates hands down for the post when Mr Bodean retired to sit dreaming on his front porch, with a jug in one hand and a tattered treasured old book in the other.

Some things never change.  Deputy Don Deakin resumed turning a blind eye to the many stills in the county, and the moonshine again flows like water.  The county fair goes ahead each year, and the greased piglet has still to be caught.  The school bell rings at the same time each day, and the kids are still allowed to give homework a miss during the planting and harvesting seasons. 

The travelling salvation shows still turn up from time to time, but after their detrimental impact on Deputy Don, the townsfolk are more wary, and fewer converts are made on each visit.  There will come a time when they don’t bother to come at all, and that will be a great loss to Pollen Bend, if not spiritually, then socially.  It only takes one “Halleluiah Brother” to whisk me back to a sweaty hot tent, with Maw holding my hand and baby Mindy Lou, still innocent, sleeping in a big travel bag at my feet, while the pulpits thunder and the congregation is saved.

Some of the old folks are gone, Mr and Mrs Potter, Antigonus McCoy, even old Doc Jellicoe, though some hang on to the tattered remnants of their lives far beyond their time.  They can usually be found gently dozing on some porch, or out in front of the saloon, and there are always younger folks around to buy them one drink too many and then to make sure they get home safely.

Paw still spends much of his time with his jug on the front porch, too old to do much around the farm nowadays.  He and Maw manage with just their kitchen garden, a few chickens and whatever money Jeb and I manage to send them. 

In my youth I knew there was more to life than this sleepy backwater of a town, and dreamed of getting away to see the world.  Well, I’ve seen it, and now I dream of going back to the days of sitting under the house, eavesdropping on the adults talking on the front porch, with the clucking of the chickens, the hum of bees and the call of the mockingbirds punctuating the peace of long gone, hot, dusty, summer afternoons.