SHE LOOKED AT ME THROUGH THE SMOKE OF HER CORNCOB pipe and declared she wanted me to take her home, and I never knew until the day of her death years later whether it was because of a real longing for the place of her raising or because she wanted to give me a way to get myself out of trouble.
"Home?" I said. "Fort Scott is home. It's where we make our living. It's where we buried Pap."
"My home is Tennessee," my mother replied. "The living we make here ain't much, and I'm pining for the hills. I want to go back to Rogersville and live with your aunt