Today is a bucket list kind of day for me. I’m making my way down highway 92 this morning to do something that has been on my mind since I retired at the end of last June. I don’t mean to procrastinate, but I do.

“Good intentions pave the way to Hell,” my mama used to say, except she never used that last word. She would fuss at me right now if she knew I wrote it. Her version of this sage advice went something like this.

“Did you clean your room?” she would ask.

“No ma’am. I ain’t got to it yet.”

“Well, I asked you to get it done first thing this morning.”

“I meant to, but I just forgot.”

“Meant to?”

Hands on hips. Stern look. Her right index finger points down at the tip of my nose.

“Good intentions pave the way to you-know-where young man. Now get with it.”

I knew exactly “where” she meant, and I didn’t want to be on that road.

I’m not much better these days. Marion knows I’ve been meaning to get this done for months now. She’s aware that I’m letting time slip away from me. Time that I may never get back if I wait too long.

“We’re going to Hampton this weekend and get this done,” she said.

I felt like maybe I was on the road to you-know-where.

I’m actually on the road that goes through the hamlet of Woolsey. I make a left turn to take the back road to Hampton, which is a joke if you know these roads. From here, all roads to Hampton are back roads.

The intention on which I will make good today is to visit Miss Betty Gibbs and Miss Peggy Whited. If it’s true that it takes a village to raise a child, these two ladies were key members of my communal upbringing. I’m traveling to Hampton to pay homage, to say thank you, to touch my past, and to show respect and appreciation for what they gave me.

Miss Betty was my first-grade teacher in 1962. I also saw her at church every Sunday. And when I was old enough to be in Scouts, Billy Dan, her husband, was my Scoutmaster. So, there were a lot of opportunities for our paths to intersect throughout my growing up years.

We pull up to her house and knock on the door under the carport. She’s not just glad, but enthusiastic to see us.

“Oh my. Come in this house. Come in this house.”

There are hugs. She’s shorter than I remember. Maybe I’m taller. It’s 9am and she’s dressed to kill. A bright red sweater. Black dress slacks. Hair done. Jewelry tastefully on display. She’ll be going to the Valentine’s luncheon at the Masonic Lodge later after our visit this morning.

We chat on the couch for a while. I am enchanted. I know better than to ask a lady this next question, but I figure I’m sort-of like family.

“How old are you now Miss Betty?”

“I’m 91 and proud to still be here.”

I thought she was ancient when I sat at my table at Hampton Elementary. A kid’s perceptions are skewed. She was grown. I was small. She and Billy Dan were friends of my folks. My folks were near the end of their lives, thus Miss Betty was right there with them.

Turns out she was only 29 that year. Turns out, sitting on her couch and talking to her, it seems like her mind is still 29. Sharp as a tack. I’d ask about somebody. She’d close her eyes for a second, and then rattle off family names and lists of siblings like she could see them all gathered round her, the living and the dead.

I hated to leave, but we had other things to do. Like pee. We stopped to “visit” the library. No books were checked out. It seemed anti-climactic to ask Miss Betty if we could use her facilities after such a heart-warming walk down memory lane.

I pulled into the gravel lot at Old Berea. We pushed through the cemetery gate and visited my ancestors for a brief spell. I introduced Marion to the entire clan.

By the time we got ready to roll out, the police had the road blocked off for a parade that kept us from going through town. We headed east, cut up Dorsey Road to Hwy 81, and on up to Lovejoy to see Miss Peggy.

Mr. Vic and Miss Peggy came to Hampton in 1964. He accepted the call to be our preacher. I learned today that it was my dad who called them way out in Joplin, MO and made them the offer. Miss Peggy’s home was in Valley, AL and this was a lot closer than Joplin. So, they moved here.

The last time I saw her was five years ago at Mr. Vic’s funeral.

I spent half a lifetime at their house on North Avenue. Their son, Stephen, and I were inseparable. Miss Peggy fed me, put up with me, put her hands on her hips at the both of us, and sent me home when it was time to go.

I knocked and there she was. Elegant white hair. Same beautiful smile. We hugged. I’m guessing I booted the cat out of his favorite chair. The conversation was nearly ignorant of how many years had passed. It was like 1965 was just yesterday.

“You boys were like this,” she said holding up two fingers wrapped around each other.

I smiled a lot as she talked about “us boys” playing army and making forts in the crawl space under the house. She’s 89 and doesn’t play piano much anymore. She was close to my mom and she told me about the time that she and Mama got their ears pierced together, which I never knew.

“Your mama called me and asked me to go with her. I had no intention of getting my ears pierced, but I did.”

I am utterly pleased with this day. Glad Marion nudged me. Grateful to have sat with these two ladies who were such an intimate part of making me who I am.

When we left Miss Peggy, we stopped at Wendy’s for a bite to eat. I was filling my cup at the machine when a lady came up to me.

“What are you doing here?”

Marion says it’s a God thing that we ran into a group of “kids” that were in the youth group with me at Berea a bazillion years ago. Every time I come to Hampton, I think I should see people I know, and this time I did.

We ended the day walking around the farm where I grew up out on Luella Road. Sadly, the old house is in disrepair. But the fields are mown. The woods and creeks are as familiar as my own face. The Beech with the carved initials and dates is still standing.

This is me. These people. These places. I carry them with me everywhere I go, aware of them or not.

My bucket runneth over.