WHERE GYPSIES DANCED - Mary Alford-Carman

The doctor’s appointment took far less time than we had anticipated and the day was something out of a photograph. The sky was vibrant with wispy clouds and we had free, unplanned time. What do you do with unexpected free time? When we were little, riding in the back seat of our Daddy’s car, my Mama would chime, “We have some time! Let’s go for a drive.”  There was no direction, no planning, no agendas, just driving with the windows slightly down, roving, checking the countryside, stopping at an old corner store, it was rare, it was marvelous, it was a type of together-freedom. So we drove that day, my sister and I, up the road, away from home, away from everyone, just like the times when we were young, heading without direction into the day, into adventure, into come what may.

We drove out of Raleigh, heading into Knightdale. These days, it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. We drove along old Hiway 64 East. We headed over the muddy Neuse River and talked about Mama and Daddy. It’s always fascinating to me that when you start a sentence with “Do you remember when?” that something else, connected or not, comes flying to the forefront of your thoughts, unbidden, unyielding like a freight train with too much weight to stop on its own.

“Do you remember when Mama talked about the Gypsy Caravan?” Now, North Carolina is simply not known for gypsies, caravans or any such exotic and intoxicating lifestyle, at least not in the 1940’s, the time frame Mama reminisced about. Seems like Mama and Daddy were coming home from Wendell, after visiting my Grandmamma, and they were hungry. There was an old barbeque restaurant that had its cooking pits and smoke house across the highway from the actual restaurant, and while the owners preferred you stop in at the restaurant; they didn’t mind if you found yourself on the opposite side of the highway and needed a bite to eat. Barbeque and commerce are hand in hand in North Carolina. So Mama and Daddy stopped at the cookhouse to grab a bite.

Mama told us that the old stone smoke house was right beside the river, and up on the hill, above the smoke house, was a field with a beautiful stone house. On that particular day there was a colorful extravaganza of wagons. Horses with ribbons in their manes, the sound of music drifting on a late spring afternoon, and dancing gypsies took my parents by complete, and delightful surprise.  They sat in the grass and ate their barbeque sandwiches, serenaded by their unexpected entertainment. For years, whenever we passed the ruins of the old smoke house, Mama would sigh and retell the story. Daddy didn’t speak, but would nod, with a dreamy smile on his face. That’s how Regina and I both remembered it, and low and behold, we caught sight of the ruins, just as we passed them. I’d always wanted to go up that driveway. Now it was nothing more than a rutted path, hung over with branches like a natural tunnel where you could no longer see the sunlight on the other side. I was always too chicken, or I was with someone who was just as chicken as I was to ignore the no trespassing sign and head up that hill. I took a sidelong glance at my sister, and all I said was, “Do you wanna?”

She responded with a big grin. I spun the mini-van around at the next break in the median and we found our way to the base of the old driveway. We hesitated a moment. Looking up the hill with a “this is it, do or die” kind of mentality. The van jiggled and bounced over the potholes in the driveway, branches scraped against the side of the van, and I prayed that I wasn’t causing serious damage to the paint job. Still, we didn’t stop. Trash, broken bottles and an old mattress left out in the elements, told the tale of a long abandoned site. No one quite sane, at least not two, past middle-age Southern ladies, would venture to such a place. But we did. We were rewarded for our daring with a clearing at the top of the hill and the remains of an old granite home. The sun was shining through rafters that once supported a tile roof. The large window on the second floor framed in a portion of blue sky and tree branches; it was out of a dream. 

I asked Regina if she thought it would be okay if I got out of the car to take a photo. It was a sketchy area at best. She threw her head back and laughed saying, “Go! If anyone comes at you, I’ll throw my oxygen tank at them.” I cracked up and told her she couldn’t even lift the oxygen tank, let alone throw it. She pushed me out of the car with a look. Big sisters can do that, ya know? I took several photos, our favorite being the one of the second story window. I sent a copy to her phone when we got home that afternoon. We had an adventure, all on our own. The best part of it was that on that day, we both fell in love again with family, with the unexpected, with stories told, and with each other. We had traveled together where gypsies danced and it brought us full circle.

Now Regina is gone, and I don’t know what to do with all of the unexpected free time that I have. I’m too chicken just yet to set sail on another adventure. Too tender and bruised from missing her. Soon, when the sky calls blue, and those wispy clouds beacon, I’ll take the van, and maybe I’ll go for a drive.