by Patty Marinelli

Created on: October 18, 2009

Shelby, a little girl of nine years old runs breathless and barefoot down the dirt road that runs through the center of town. Looking down at her dress as she runs, she knows that momma will be upset with her for soiling it. This certainly is the least of her worries as she weaves her way past the chaos in the center of town. Looking with hesitation behind her, she sees in the distance the monster approaching nearer. The war is coming. The war is coming to Savannah. The fire and explosions are coming closer with every step she takes. Please don't let it have reached my home, she cries.

The Union army was coming on their drive to the sea. Sherman's army was destroying everything in his way, leaving a scorched path in the process. Savannah was next in line to face the wrath of the war machine. The citizens of Savannah were running.

Neighbors were loading their wagons with all their worldly possessions. Young boys were running in packs, setting fire to bales of hay by the side of the road. They would much rather have Savannah burn down before they would allow the likes of a Yankee any pleasure of burning their town.

Instead of taking the normal, safe way home she decides to take a short cut through the park. Lately the park has been the place where drunkards and hobos have been living. More and more folks have been down on their luck since the war. Mother always said to never go into the park alone, but her urgency to get home removed all fear. As Shelby sprints through the park she sees a comforting sight. Home is still there, still intact.

The lovely home on McDonough Street was the biggest house on the block. Daddy was the owner of a lumberyard, but all Shelby knew was that daddy was scary. Daddy wasn't the kind of dad that would scoop her up in his arms at the end of a long day and carry her on his back. Instead, Daddy's normal entrance into their home was to slam shut the front door, and go to the den with a drink in hand. Shelby knew by the look on her mother's face when it was time to take her little brother Wyatt and go play in their rooms. When daddy was especially crabby, Shelby would take her little brother out to play under the live oak tree in the backyard.

Normally the big tree with the streamers of Spanish moss would be comforting. The long branches that extended out forever would seem to hug her as she perched from her lookout spot. But today the moss that hung from the tree looked like ghosts reaching to grab her.

As Shelby opened

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