EDITOR’S NOTE: Bill Stamps is on a six-week hiatus. Here’s one of his favorite past columns.
I was 5, maybe 6, living with my grandmother, Miz Lena, in a small white house, at the top of 50 acres, two miles from town in Middle Tennessee. We had left the farm and moved into Columbia. Grand Mom intended to tear down the little white house and build her dream home. Zoning was already approved for her to develop the rest of the property into an upscale subdivision.
She did indeed build the home that she had envisioned. It was a showpiece.
My grandfather, an architect, drew up the blueprinted plans. And true to form, Miz Lena succeeded in building 50 houses on the other 49 acres. Vini, vidi, vici.
It was summer. Clarence, a little black man, and I were getting ready to run Saturday errands for Miz Lena. She wrote down the list of things to do on the front of a small brown grocery sack and handed it to Clarence.