Squeak, Squeak.
10.1.25 | Squeak, Squeak
At the farmhouse, deep in the woods of the Appalachian Mountains, I would sit on the porch swing and listen to the storms coming up over the hills. I would pick up my youngest brother, Judah, wrap him in a blanket and hold him close.
I could hear it coming. The storm. I could feel it in the air. The sky would darken, the critters would hide, and the woods would get so quiet. All I could hear was the gentle squeak of the swing as the world held its breath, bracing for impact.
Squeak, squeak.
The wind would begin to pick up and eventually that’s all I could hear. Then came the rain - “gully-washers” we would call them – just dumping so hard the bushes would mangle and the grass would flatten. The wind would lash the trees so hard you could hear cracking out in the woods. Judah would cuddle against me in his blanket.
Squeak, squeak.
Then came the hail, and not regular pea-sized hail, either. Golf balls falling from the sky, bouncing off of the roof, punching holes in the ground as water flooded muddily onto our porch and around my bare feet.
Squeak, squeak.
Frogs by the dozens would seek shelter on the porch around my toes. I would pick the prettiest one to hold and to grant a kiss to, you know, just in case magic was real.
Finally, the hail would slow, the stop as the storm began to pass. The rain would settle from dumping to pouring and eventually to trickling. The wind would wander off, saddened that it couldn’t scare me and looking for someone else to bother.
Squeak, squeak.
The rain would slow to a final stop. The frogs would putter back to the creekbed. And the smell of battered pines would begin to waft from the steaming forests. I can’t begin to describe the heavenly smell of the pine trees. We didn’t have a lot of them down south, but it was glorious. As the sun came back to reheat the ground, steam would rise bringing the smell of fresh earth and a ridiculous amount of humidity.
And in these quiet moments, I would look down at my beautiful, perfect little brother in my arms, and I would tell him about the day he was born. How loved he was. How wanted he was. How special he was. Moments that were never granted to me after the kidnapping.
And his eyes would slowly close as he fell asleep, every time.
Squeak, squeak.
“Ms Gibbs writes with such emotional honesty. She brings compassion to her young self and her siblings and a true search to find why the adults in her life are relentless in their chaos and cruelty. This really resonated with me and I think anyone who grew up in addiction, mental illness and abuse will recognize the struggle. It is so redemptive to see this child make it to adulthood and bring the family she fought so hard for with her. A tender and heartbreaking read that ends with beautiful redemption.”
— Sarah S.
“This book is so good. There were a few parts I had to stop reading because it made me cry. I heard about this book from a podcast. The book is better than I thought it would be. I loved the part about the mistletoe, I heard stories about people doing that. I just loved this book.”
— Ralph B.
—
At the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains sits the small farm towns of Rockwell, Sugar Loaf and Liledoun, North Carolina. A large family struggles to survive the chaotic nature of the family head: their mother, a terrifying blend of rage, disappointment, and religious command. Her husband follows sheepishly behind, a monster of his own kind.
And then there’s young Jesse: unwanted from conception but kept as a pawn for her mother’s bidding. Her life is a tale of growing up with no one to count on but herself.
A story of southern hills, a mother’s neglect, fireflies, kidnapping, birth, death, and the taste of sweet mulberries ripened by the sun. Jesse is a girl, hidden, who becomes a woman, discovered.
