Palmetto and Blackjack Oaks provide cover for the flat land. An occasional yellow pine stands to provide variety for the squirrels. Stillness is quiet indicative of the tranquillity found there. Winding around is the Suwannee River offering the gentle sound of flowing water. It is a place called Gray Hammock. It does not belong to man; Man belongs to the hammock.

I missed Gray Hammock and everything about it. My family and friends remained there. To put it quiet blunt, my life was there. Soon I would be there again. My name is Frank Wright. I left North Florida for the first time in 1942. Four years later I had been everywhere in the world except for North Florida. Duty of country called and I had been riding shotgun on a B-17 Bomber protecting democracy around the world.

At last, World War II was over and I was on my  way home. The excitement of returning home was overwhelming. The trip home would take two weeks. Most of those two weeks was sleepless. When sleep would come, I would have wonderful dreams of a huge celebration honoring my return.

Those dreams were so clear. I would step off the train in Live Oak where a band would play “When Johnny Comes Marching Home." At that point, all the people of Suwannee County would surround me with open arms, hugs, and warm smiles. Finally, a parade would accompany my family and me from the county seat, fifteen miles south to Gray Hammock.

I am the youngest of three children. First born was John who continues to reside in Gray Hammock. John was representing Suwannee County in the Florida House of Representatives. His responsibilities to the Wright Farm are a minimum due to a full time political career and family of his own.

Second born was our sister Katherine. Katherine maintains a vital role in Gray Hammock. She had been instrumental in the planting of pine trees while I was away, Katherine’s husband Clete Jones had become general overseer of the Wright cattle. Clete and Katherine had three small children as did John and his wife, the former Rachel Bishop from Atlanta, Georgia.

Our parents, John and Mary Wright also remained very active in the Gray Hammock community. Known as true pioneers, they had gained the admiration and respect of many others who hoped to find happiness and success in the Hammock as well.

Although formally educated, we are crackers. We respect the cracker ways and we abide by the cracker ways. John, Katherine and I call our parents Ma and Pa. Our family has always been extremely proud of each others’ success. We are of Primitive Baptist faith and thank the Lord for success.

The big house is what we refer to as our home. My parents built it in 1910. I understand they wired it for electricity last fall. In the letters I have received, I understand Pa was hesitant to make the change as he feared electricity. He believes it will burn down the house. There are six bedrooms upstairs, equipped with bath and parlor each. There are two bedrooms located downstairs. Ma and Pa occupy one of these bedrooms. My siblings, their spouses, children and I occupy the upstairs rooms.

Sable Palms are along each side of the winding dirt road in front of the house. The front yard consists of four well-manicured acres. Gardenias and wisteria cover the front grounds with tall Florida pines hovering. The back yard has a beautiful landscape of hydrangeas, roses, crepe myrtle and phlox. Pink vine entwines the banisters of the board walk that connects to the buildings behind the big house. There are two out houses, a smoke house, a syrup house, and a lawn tool shed. An underground wine cellar detached from the house kept Pa’s special productions safe. Also detached, but under the same roof is the kitchen.

The house and all other buildings are immaculate with white paint. Throughout the homestead, tin roofing complements the structure. The equipment and livestock barns are three hundred yards behind the house. A grove of pecan trees provides a barrier between the yard and the work areas. Near the equipment barn, a bunk house furnished housing for the farm hands. Although the bunk house sleeps sixteen people, rarely more than four or five persons occupy it at any one time.

Over the past four years, I have walked every mile of Gray Hammock in my mind. I have toured my family's farm and every building every night in my dreams. Finally it was all within a few days of reality.

The only thing I was skeptical about was the fact I had changed. I knew the change would be evident but there was nothing I could do. I wish there was. I suppose war changed us all. For me, I lost a child like quality. I had come to realize all endings are not happy endings. As for happy endings, the price to pay is often astronomical.

From Gray hammock, there had been five young men to serve our country in the second World War. One of those young men, Wilbur Stern had lost his life out at Pearl Harbor. Wilbur had been a good friend to me through the years and our families had always been close. I had mixed emotions of guilt for returning alive after learning of  Wilbur’s death. Grant Johns and Ashley Mixon had both returned safe and sound already. In fact they had already resumed their roles in our local moon shine industry. That left two soldiers, Louie Wilson and myself.

Louie Wilson was a class act. He and I are the same age. Louie had been the best athlete, worker, or marksman I had ever seen. Far beyond that, Louie had been the best friend I had ever had.

Before Louie and I were born, his parents had begun working for my parents on the farm. Old Abe and Carrie too were good staff members. They taught and instilled values into the Wilson children.

Louie and I worked side by side after school. During leisure time, we would fish and hunt together. I shall always cherish the good times we had. I could only hope Louie continued to cherish those memories as well.

The last time I saw Louie was in 1942. He had joined the Army and me the Army Air Force. We had both returned home for leave following our separate boot camps. It was Thanksgiving week and we were both sent abroad sometime before Christmas.

The aroma of the Atlantic Ocean had grown gloomy. For fifteen days I had been aboard an aircraft carrier enroute for home sweet home. I had really begun to think America had floated away. As far as my eyes could see there was water and more water. Finally on the morning of December 2, 1946, I was awakened by hundreds of ecstatic airmen. The Statue of Liberty stood before us, welcoming her boys back home. With that mighty hand in the air it was as if she were saying “Job well-done boys."

My fellow airmen and I had been unsuccessful in holding our tears back at that great moment of our lives. I actually saw the sea gulls fly and at last I could hear the sounds of America along the shore. White clouds of smoke aimlessly drifted up from the factories into the winter skies.

“This is what we fought for," an airman to my right said as we stood on the deck of the carrier. “I would do it again tomorrow. But tonight I see my family.”

My own enthusiasm was growing. I may not have yet reached Gray Hammock but I had finally reached home. After the ship had docked, a twenty hour furlough enabled us to get a taste of civilian life once again. For the first time since I had gone overseas, I felt all alone as I witnessed many other airmen being greeted by family members and loved ones. I could not fault anyone for not being there to greet me because I had not even let them know when I would be returning. Besides, I wanted to send a letter home from the states, that way it would be more realistic for my folks but I decided to surprise them instead.

“The night belongs to you, men,” stated the Major. “Just don’t celebrate too hard because you have to report to the base at eight a.m. in the morning.”

“Yes Sir!” We shouted simultaneously and went about our separate ways. The other airmen not met by families went to the bars. I on the other hand took a sober look at the Big Apple. Finally, I wound up in a diner that did not serve grits attempting to eat a midnight breakfast.

Sitting at the adjoining table was a gentleman in his early to mid fifties I estimated. His face had suffered neglect from a razor for a few days and his clothes were worn and stained. He consistently smoked cigarettes as he would occasionally look at me in what seemed to be pity.

“Cold night.” I commented to him.

“It is," he said. “Especially for a southern boy.”

“How did you know I was from the south?” I asked candidly.

“You asked for grits," he stated with a subtle grin. “Just coming home?” He then asked.

“Yes sir," I replied. “I look forward to getting back to Florida.”

Again, he flashed a subtle smile and shook his head. “I was in the First World War," he said.

“Then you must know the joy I am feeling.” I commented.

“Yes," he began. “I know what joy you now feel but I also know the disappointment you may be in store for son. Do not expect things to be as you left them. You are now older than you were when you left for war and have been exposed to things your folks could never imagine. Just remember, they still see you as the naive lad you were when you left.” He said sadly.

I lit a cigarette of my own and stared deep into the eyes of this man that was trying to warn me of changes in a place he did not know. “How do you know things will not be the same where I am from?” I asked cynically.

“They never are son. They never are," he said while walking to the cash register. After finishing my coffee and smoke, I then sauntered to the cashier to pay out and return to the base for a night of rest.

“On the house," said the young lady behind the cash register.

“Excuse me," I gasped in disbelief.

“Oh yes," she replied. “The boss took care of it, that was him you were talking to.”

The Army Air Force spent the next three days debriefing and preparing me for life after war. The words of the gentleman in the restaurant continued to haunt me as I knew my folks in Gray Hammock awaited my most anxious return. Though he did not look believable, there was a hint of truth in his words.

Finally, I found myself on a bus heading to Tallahassee. From there I would catch another to Live Oak or shall I say God’s Country. As the bus slowly made its way south, I could only hope life in the hammock would be as I remembered. Still, the words of the cafe owner continued to haunt me.