By Cherimie Crane Weatherford
We all have reasons for going home, often mirroring our reasons for leaving. Occasionally, I forget who I am and from where I come. Trips home are a prescribed cure.
Those raised by the sun and mentored by the land have a skill set underutilized outside the barbwire of self-sufficiency. I am reminded of this every single morning during the school year. Getting ready for school for my daughter starkly contrasts my days of preparing for school, yet some mornings, we struggle.
She has no roosters to fight, no fences to mend, and the only eggs she must find are on her plate. It was time to take her to Mississippi. Nothing gives perspective, like visiting her papaw in the Deep South.
After the long journey, which included planes, trains, automobiles, and a tornado or two to keep it interesting, the familiar sounds of gravel beneath my tires and the distant grumblings of a pig with an attitude let me know I was home. No more hiding my accent or retracting my claws; the next few days, I could be as wild and free as that old, relentless rooster who refuses to die. Daddy needed help. I was there to help.
I had forgotten the sense of accomplishment that comes from working from sun up to face down under the oppressive blanket of Mississippi heat. The freedom of being so busy that typical worry is forced to reschedule is almost as liberating as no cell service.
Hours of manual labor resulting in mud in places where mud shouldn’t be was cardio of the cruelest kind. Working alongside my father as I did as a kid was therapeutic and a possible reminder of why I now live in South Carolina.
We always had one rule to survive life amid wild animals. As a child, I didn’t understand it as I do now. Daddy sternly enforced respectful distance and told us never to let down our guard. Coyotes have encroached on our property en masse for the past few years, often killing dogs, chickens, and even goats. Daddy had warned me that a ruthless pack had killed many animals the day before our arrival.
It was evident that the animals were on high alert. The most startling behavior change was in the goat herd’s top buck. Daddy was adamant about my daughter staying away from the once approachable buck. We had one last chore for the day, one last section of fence needing repair. Maybe it was because my child was steps away or a gentle nod of intuition; whatever the case, I had grabbed an old walking cane and placed it within the gate of the goat paddock.
It happened so fast. Calm turned to chaos. My mom and daughter are screaming just as I turn to see my Daddy fall. The 300-pound buck had charged my father and tossed him into the air. He had my Daddy pinned to the ground. Piercing horns that protect the herd from coyotes now threatened my father. I screamed for my mom to take my daughter inside.
For the record, there is no 911 in situations such as this. We learned that early on, living in the woods. You learn to run; if you can’t run, you fight. All I had was that old walking cane leaned against the post. I turned the cane around and hooked the goat’s horns, pulling with every ounce of strength I had and some I didn’t. Daddy was able to get out from under him, and he screamed for me to back away, keeping my eyes on the buck. We both made it outside of the gate.
In many circles, this would be a traumatic experience ending with a loving father-daughter embrace. This is not one of those circles. My disheveled Daddy looked me in the eyes and said, “Let’s fix it from this side.”
It was just another day in the woods. My daughter has a newfound appreciation for life on the coast, even more respect for her papaw, a sense of pride in her mom’s ability to fight a goat, and, most importantly, the understanding that fences can be mended from either side.
Cherimie Weatherford is a long-time real estate broker, small business owner, wife and mom in beautiful Beaufort. She is the Director of Operations and Programs for the Freedman Arts District.
