Lovingly dedicated to Isabel Delia Harrington


The following stories are based on the lives of Wyatt and Isabel Harrington. The author has taken certain liberties while trying to remain true to the essence of the story.

I'll Take That One

The dance hall was warm and only a few couples shuffled arm in arm along the wooden floor, under the watchful eye of their adult chaperones. Isabel Rampy and Arliss Sears sat in their party dresses, swapping secrets and casting flirtatious glances at potential young suitors. Arliss was the first to notice the two boys across the room. She tugged at Isabel’s sleeve while staring starry-eyed in their direction.

“Oh, Liz,” Arliss giggled nervously”, I think their looking at us.”

Liz, which the Rampy family decided was somehow short for Isabel, peered around the bodies of her classmates to see what sort of specimen her friend had discovered. She didn’t expect much since Arliss was know to swoon over anything in coveralls.

“The one with blonde hair”, Arliss explained, pulling her in for a better angle. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Liz recognized him as Steven Burgess. He was a year older than them, a tall lanky fellow with fine blonde hair and light blue eyes. Aside from his exceptional height, his features were rather plain and Liz had hardly given him a second look when he playfully slugged the shoulder of the boy next to him. James Wyatt Harrington quickly retaliated with a few air jabs toward his friend’s ribs. He and Steven laughed and poked at each other. A breath caught in Liz’s throat as he glanced her way.

Wyatt was average in height and had soft brown hair that curled up in the front. His lean but muscular frame and the warm brown tone of his face and forearms told of a summer of hard work in his daddy’s fields. He and Liz were the same age but he had fallen behind a grade and wouldn’t be allowed to graduate with his class. His strong square jaw and thin lips would have given him a stern face if not for the sparkle in his smiling gray eyes--beautiful eyes that were looking right into hers.

She turned away to realize that Arliss was still chattering, oblivious to the heat that warmed her cheeks and the sudden dampness in her palms.

“Isn’t he incredibly handsome?” Arliss pressed.

“He’s okay.” Liz responded, stealing one last sideways glance at Wyatt. “But I’ll take that one.”

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Best Friends

The rain was pouring off the aluminum window coverings and beating down on the withering shrubs below. The growing heat of summer days always brought with it the fury of late afternoon thunderstorms. Liz stood behind the screen door leading to the back porch, her head resting against the doorjamb. She watched intently as the dark clouds rolled across the sky. The great masses of cool air colliding with stale heat were marked by thunderous booms. Lightning streaked through the sky and flashed over the trees that lined the creek bank in the lower pasture. A chill ran up her spine as she wondered if Steven Burgess had seen the bolt of light coming for him like a fiery arrow. Had he been too far out in the field to reach shelter? She didn’t know the circumstances, only that the result had been fatal. Liz tried to force herself to pray for his grieving mother and father but her heart and mind could only think of one person.

Wyatt had been Steven’s best friend for years. She’d seen them often since the dance last fall but could never bring herself to speak, only to smile shyly and hurry past. Liz was sure Wyatt had passed her off as a silly schoolgirl crush and nothing more. But at the funeral tomorrow, she intended to make sure he knew that she was interested in much more.

In a small town like Weedowee, Alabama, everyone knows everyone, and a funeral can seem like a family reunion. Bear Creek Methodist Church was filled to capacity. The service was difficult and the Pastor’s voice could hardly be heard above the sobs of Mrs. Burgess. Liz and her family sat near the back of the sanctuary. She craned her neck trying to pick Wyatt out of the crowd but she could hardly see over her aunt Molly McManus’ big black hat with it’s purple plume sticking out of one side. Why anyone would wear something so gaudy to a funeral was beyond Liz’s understanding. It’s not an Easter picnic for goodness sake, she thought as she settled back in her chair with a sigh of frustration. Hmph!

As the Pastor signaled the beginning of the procession to the graveside, Liz finally saw Wyatt. He was the third pallbearer on the left-hand side, serving along with John’s younger brother, George, and several cousins and uncles. She watched Wyatt as they passed her row. His jaw was firmly set and his lips were drawn tightly in a narrow line. He was fighting to control his emotions. In contrast to the tension over most of his face, she could see that his eyes were soft and moist with tears. A quick prayer rose in her heart. Please give him comfort, Lord. Then she added subconsciously, use me to comfort him, Lord.

The twenty-third Psalm was read and the Pastor spoke a final prayer then shared a personal word of encouragement with Mr. and Mrs. Burgess. The crowd of supporters left in small clusters as the family members made their way to the fellowship hall for a meal prepared by the ladies of the church. Eva Rampy was head of the benevolence committee and would remain at the church until the meal was finished. Liz knew that her mom would be calling on her for kitchen help soon but she had to talk to Wyatt first.

He was still standing at the graveside, staring at the ground that would soon be home to the body of his friend. Liz hesitated to break into the moment. Instead, she walked casually between the grave plots, glancing at the headstones as she went. Generations of Rampys and McManuses, her mother’s side of the family, had been laid to rest in this cemetery, so she neither felt nor looked out of place.

After a few moments, Wyatt looked up from the ground. His cheeks were damp with tears and Liz recognized her opportunity. Slowly and purposefully she approached his side. He never looked her way. Not when their shoulder’s touched or when she slid her slender fingers into his palm. Not even when she gently declared, “I’ll be your best friend now, Wyatt Harrington.” She knew that she belonged beside him and the tightening of his fingers around her hand assured her that he knew it, too.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Big Day

Hearing the truck coming up the dirt drive of her parents’ home, Liz took one last look in the dim mirror. She’d chosen a crisp white blouse and navy skirt with matching shoes and handbag.
The skirt hem lay just above her slender calves and was fitted to show off her petite waistline. The cotton blouse was buttoned all the way up to the ruffled collar and dark brown locks of curl brushed the tops of her shoulders. She took a deep breath before walking onto the large front porch.

Her mother and father sat quietly rocking. She knew that for their sakes she would hold herself in check but it had been three long years since she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been serving as a Military Police officer in the army, stationed first in England, then France for nine months, and then finally in Germany. He entered the service on September 27, 1942 and had been discharged yesterday, September 9, 1945. While constant letters had warmed her heart and occasionally flushed her cheeks, nothing could compare to this moment. As Wyatt stepped out of the truck in his army dress uniform, heat filled her belly and her heart raced. He was more handsome that she had remembered. Breathe, Liz, breathe. She could feel his eyes moving up her body, taking in every inch like a long cool drink of water. When at last they met her own, she could stand it no longer. She couldn’t recall her feet touching the ground as she ran into his arms, only the feeling of being swallowed up in his strong embrace and his warm lips against hers.

Liz remembered herself and quickly pushed away from his arms. She nervously wiped at the fresh creases in her skirt and then forced her gaze to her parents. Gripping his cap in his hands Wyatt addressed them.

“Mr. Rampy, Mrs. Rampy.” His voice was confident but respectful.

There had been no need to ask for permission. Both Liz and Wyatt were twenty-six years of age and a nine-year courtship left little doubt as to his intentions. Still, he waited silently for a sign of their approval. Without any change in his countenance, Liz’s father gave a subtle nod. Liz let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Suddenly, her legs were swept from under her as Wyatt hoisted her into the truck cab and jumped in beside her. She waved her hand out the window as they sped down the dirt road and out to the main highway which would lead them straight to the Weedowee Courthouse.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Sister

“My little woman, Daddy’s little woman…” Wyatt sang and swayed the tiny little girl gently in his arms.

“Put her back, Wyatt, you heard what the doctor said. She’ll catch pneumonia.” Liz looked up from her quilting. “Put her back in the box.”

“I know what he said but she needs fresh air. Her colors not so good.” Wyatt replied still humming between words.

Patricia Jane was born on April 2, 1947 with a hole in her heart. The prognosis was grim and after seven long days in the hospital, Wyatt and Liz had finally brought their little girl home.

Wyatt lowered her into the pasteboard box and covered her with a soft crocheted blanket. He shifted the liquor bottle full of hot water toward her tiny feet and smiled at the warm pink glow coming back into her cheeks. The physicians instructions had been very clear -–absolutely no drafts, keep her warm. The box was completely airtight and had replaced the beautiful cradle Wyatt had crafted with his own hands. Liz hoped and prayed that some day Patricia Jane would be well enough to sleep in it.

Almost two weeks passed and Patricia seemed to be holding her own. There were a few close calls and while Wyatt and Liz’s hopes grew with every gurgle and coo, their worst fear was never far from mind.

“She’s my sweet girl. Yes, her was done it.” Liz chattered as she worked on the evening meal. After kneading out the biscuits, she washed her hands and peeked around the corner at Patricia. She was like a China doll with her fair complexion and fine strawberry blonde hair. But Liz noticed that her eyes seemed a bit dim.

“What’s the matter, little one? Are you sleepy?” The sweet face turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Well, a short nap will do you well before Daddy gets home. He’ll want lots of sweet kisses from his little woman so, we’d better let you rest up now.” Liz tucked the blanket around the frail arms and legs. Patricia’s fingers and toes felt colder than usual so Liz carefully scooted the makeshift crib toward the window where she could warm up in the late afternoon sun.

The table was set and bowls of steaming mashed potatoes, green beans, and crispy fried chicken filled the house with a delicious aroma.

“Mmmm” Wyatt exclaimed as he came through the front door. “Smells good in here.”

He dropped the mail onto the counter top. “And how’s my little woman?” he asked as he made his way across the room.

Liz gave a few details about their day as she poured the ice tea. A glass in each hand, she turned toward the table but stopped mid-step. She knew immediately that Patricia wasn’t doing well. Wyatt lifted her gently. Their poor sweet girl groaned and squirmed with each labored breath.
Dinner was forgotten, and for several hours they tried to comfort her. They took turns warming the whiskey bottle and hummed soothing lullaby’s but it was useless. Patricia Jane continued growing weaker.

When they’d tried everything they knew of to do, Liz and Wyatt bundled her up and drove to the hospital, in vain. Patricia Jane passed away quietly; just two short weeks after her life began.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

A New Beginning

As Wyatt entered the hospital room, Liz looked up at him and could not contain the swell of tears that filled her eyes. Not understanding the source of her emotion, Wyatt attempted to comfort her.

“We’ll get another girl, yet.” He encouraged. At his words, Liz began to sob even harder. Why, that was the farthest thing from her mind. Maybe someday they would have a girl but for now she was thankful, so thankful for the precious baby boy nuzzled in her arms. After Patricia Jane, she had feared that another child was impossible or would suffer a similar fate as their little angel. But here he was, a perfect healthy baby boy, sleeping peacefully. Jerry Wyatt was truly a miracle to her.

She didn’t bother explaining, but let the tears flow from a heart overwhelmed by God’s grace.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Big Woods

Liz slid out the back door and down the porch steps. She slipped the tight black pumps off of her aching feet and wiggled her toes in the cool red dirt of the driveway. She’d been working in that hot kitchen for hours and needed a breath of fresh air. Throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder, Liz couldn’t help but notice the soft white glow of the moon blanketing the fields and casting long shadows across the meadow. It was a beautiful night.

Since James Fred was born she’d had very little time to herself. Silently, she thanked the Lord that he was finally sleeping through the night. It had been six years since Jerry was a baby and she felt so much older this time. Why, most of her classmates had teenagers by now and here she was nursing a babe. But what a beautiful baby he was and how faithful God had been to give her two precious boys. She stared into the open sky full of twinkling stars and thought about her sweet Patricia Jane.

Shouting in the distance shook her from her thoughts. The voices grew louder as they got closer. “Fire! Fire in the big woods!” Liz hurried along the rocky drive toward the front of the house.

Wyatt leapt from the porch, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Get in the house, Liz” he threw over his shoulder in a scolding tone.

A flash of anger momentarily replaced her panic. She hated when he spoke to her like a child but she obeyed and moved quickly to the front door. Jerry was waiting--his blue eyes wide with fear. Liz drew him close. She heard the engine of the tractor rumbling and then watched as Wyatt drove down the drive and along the dirt road.

“Be careful, Wyatt,” she called out as he rounded the bend in the road. He waved his hat in the air and then disappeared out of sight. She tightened her arms around little Jerry’s shoulders and stared helplessly at the growing glow of the burning pines.

Hours passed and the fire continued to burn closer and closer. Liz knew that if the men could not stop the flames they, and most of their neighbors, would lose their home. She stroked the hair of her oldest. He was finally sleeping, his head gently pressed in her lap. What a brave young man he was. If anything happened to Wyatt, she knew that Jerry would valiantly step into the role as head of their home. A dull ache formed in her chest and she forced the lump back from her throat. Lord, I pray he’ll never have to fill those shoes. Please protect our men. As fatigue began to settle in her back and shoulders she refused to let her eyes close in sleep. Instead, she hummed softly to herself until the wee hours of morning.

“There’s an all seeing eye watching you, watching you. Every step that you take…” her voice trailed off as she saw a lone figure walking toward them. She squinted through dry, tired eyes. Jerry awoke at her movement and he too set his focus on the approaching man. “Mama” he said, “it’s…”

“Wyatt!” Liz ran to meet him and threw her arms around his neck. His skin and hair were gray with ash but he was home. All night the men dug trenches and back burned the heavy brush to head off the flames and at last the fire was out. Through the heart of community, the love of neighbors, and the grace of God, every home was spared. As they made their way into the house Liz was overcome with relief and soon after, exhaustion. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. But the stubborn sun insisted on rising and James Fred let out a hungry cry.

She groaned at the stiffness in her body and knew that come nightfall she would be ready to collapse into bed –-her soft bed still made from the day before, in her cozy bedroom, in her still standing home. Thankfulness alone would get her through this day.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Farewell

The family was called and gathered from every direction. Children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren came together for those final days. Time and again the emotional scene was played out with its unwilling actors. They would file into the sterile room expecting the end only to return to their post and again wait, while struggling with the uncomfortable mix of relief and regret.

Liz was the steady watchman, unyielding in her devotion to Wyatt. She held his still, pale hand in her own feeble grip as though willing him her own strength and breath if need be. She carefully raised herself from her wheelchair and bent over him, “I love you, Wyatt.” Her voice reflected the pain of a divided plea. How she longed for him to open his eyes to life and yet she knew the sweet peace that death would ultimately bring. If true love had been given the power of resurrection, there is no doubt that James Wyatt would have risen from the bed and walked, perhaps danced, out of the room. But God’s infinite wisdom extends well beyond human emotion and His will was to call Wyatt home.

One last time the family drew nigh to say farewell. It was amazing how the last three days had moved so painfully slow, hour by hour, minute by minute, heartbeat by heartbeat. But in the final moment, Liz knew that sixty years together had passed much too quickly. In silent sorrow she left the hospital. It was Thanksgiving Day. The usual parades, football, and feasting were far from her thoughts. But somewhere beyond the brokenness, her heart was thankful. Thankful for the family and friends who surrounded her and for the years of memories she would treasure. Though her future was frightening and unsure, Liz was certain of her past. Her life had been blessed by the love of her best friend, Wyatt. God had been faithful to Isabel Harrington and He still is even now.


Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002