The road we traveled was a state highway with a macadam surface, common for the time, which made for a smooth enough ride, puntuated occasionally by the coughing of the eight cylinders pulling the truck,which I imagine now was miles past the need for new spark plugs.
The road followed Paint Creek, which is actually a medium sized river. The day was sunny and warm, as we traveled beneath an almost solid canopy of branches, hanging from the hugh maples lining the road. I was beginning to feel much better about the experience. After a time, we slowed to a stop, at a filling station/grocery store which was at the intersection of Liberty Hill Road, where my father got gas, and went inside the store. He wasn't long in coming out with a small paper bag in his hand, rounded from the contents inside, and twisted at the top for a handhold.
We proceeded onto Liberty Hill, onto a much rougher road surface,of gravel, which revealed much of the ground beneath. My ride was getting choppier, and I needed to hold to the side of the truck bed, to stay in one spot. I could look into the rear window, at my sisters, and see that their ride wasn't much better than mine.
We came to a rather steep hill, with two sharp curves, and deep ditches on either side, and I saw we were riding the center. Fortunately we were the only ones traveling here at the time, and my father was accustomed to all the bumps and holes we were passing over.
We never made it to the top of the hill, as we turned onto an even smaller, rougher road, without even the pretense of modification, so now we were basically on a dirt trail. This was Trego Creek Road,known more colloquially, as "Slop Creek" which I was to discover later, and also the origin of the descriptive name. A few miles up the road, we stopped at the front of a small white church, with a hand painted sign by the door, boasting the name, "Happy Valley Church of Christ in Christian Union" My father got out and motioned for us to join him in circling the church, proudly proclaiming his part in the construction. It was a lovely little building, and I and my sisters were visibly impressed.
We got back in the truck, and soon we turned into a cut from the road which was the driveway to a two-story house, with a cement porch completely across the front, with four wide tapered pillars holding up the roof. I was in awe, my sister Barbara was simply staring, but looking back now, I think that my sister Rosemary, who had just turned thirteen, must have had the thought,"So this is where the child support went"

I was about nine when Mother suddenly announced that it was time the three of us should go for a visit with our father. We were all surprised, since there had been no previous mention of going,but there was also a bit of curiosity about these people we knew so little about. There was excitement mixed with apprehension for all of us, because this would be the first time any of us had been away from Mother.
So the plans were made and eventually we were sitting in the front room, looking out the window, waiting for our father's automobile to appear, which in itself was an experience, since up to this time, the only automobiles we had ridden in, had been taxi cabs. To realize that our own father owned an automobile was impressive.
The feeling was somewhat diminished, when there suddenly appeared at the curb, a noisy, banged-up old pick-up truck, spewing blue smoke from the exhaust. I hadn't much to compare it to, so to me it was still going to be an acceptable mode of transport.
We all ran to Mother to exchange good-bye kisses, and strangely, she didn't seem too sad at our leaving,but rather, impatient to get us out the door.
So without much of a greeting from our father, we were led to the truck, where he directed my sisters to get in the cab, and lifted me and placed me in the back of the truck, with an admonition to hang on tight, and while I was still looking for something to hang onto,we began the first journey of our lives.The farthest from home I had ever been, was to the edge of town, on the banks of Paint Creek, which was about four blocks from home.
Paint Street ended at the bridge over the creek, and although I had been tempted to cross over at times, I never had. So here I was looking backward from the bed of the truck, watching the bridge pass away!