Once she told me that during a certain time of day she can hear her father hammering away in the field near the old house where she grew up. We would immediately become aware of winds approaching through wavering pines, quail songs and the chatter of distant cousins just up the road. Sometimes while on the path to the feeding grounds, Aunt Lola and I would stand still and listen together.
Growing up, spending summers in Alabama, one of my favorite chores was feeding the pigs that were on my great Aunt Lola’s land.
