The snow was falling like the down from the pillow that Millie had thrown.  The snow covered the old wood shed outside the warm house.  A feeling, longing to know more about the past of those logs, came creeping over Perry.  Thinking, they sure must have been more appreciated in days gone by, he looked on them as one in a drream.  A loud voice brought him out of his wonder world, “Perry, go git more wood for the fire.”  Instant reality of its purpose now prompted his response.  “Was that old wood shed ever used for anything besides a wood cover?”  Mother stoked the low burning logs as if he had not uttered a word.  His question was not answered until his task had been performed.

Bending over the quilting frame stood Grandma.  She took a few stiches by dipping her needle deep into the cloth and cotton.  Finally, she stood erect and looked out the window at the snow with a direct stare at the old logs.  Her eyes made you wonder if she was looking into the past.  The past had been a challenge to the survival of her people.  She was a small, slender woman with a dark complexion.  Her hair fell even with her hips when the large braids were unpinned.  There were two braids.  One around the left and the other from the right pulled up to meet at the top of her head.  She walked with sure, swift steps, holding her head high.  Her courage matched her stately form.  She had stood tall and proud in the face of persecution.  Death could not conquer this element of the blood.  Adventure was not in her blood.  This same force had called her father to the West.  She came to this country only because she was forced to come.  Above the proud and brave traits of the Cherokee maid were love and duty, she used the first to achieve the latter.

Sarah remembered the day she asked why her skin was darker than her mother and father’s.  It was then, Ann, the lover of truth, told her, as she put her arm tenderly around Sarah and began:

January sixth was a special Christmas nine years ago.  He was young when your mother died.  Sunday service was just over when he came in the mission door carrying a small bundle.  William Jones walked silently to R.D., then turned, and walked out the door into the cold, rainy wather.  The preacher examined the warm blanket and found a little girl.  There was a note written in Cherokee, which read, “Sarah live as white man.”

Your father was in the party of 1818 that went West to see the new land.  The Federal Government had promised the Cherokee a new home.  There was a treaty your father signed to trade his land in Tennesee for other lands west.  Leaving Tennesee in early August, William promised to see his wife and friends the next spring.  Out in the wilderness he felt at peace with himself.  Deep within his heart he knew his wife, Sarah, understood his need to be in a world of natural surroundings.  He felt the beauty of the wild, untamed streams and hills to be his world.  He had been caught in a changing world here in the east.  His blood ran with the streams that flowed so free in the wilderness.

At the edge of the Mississippi River, William helped build flat boats.  On the day of the crossing, the Governor of Tennessee (McMinn) was there to give Chief Jolly a hero’s sendoff.  The clear day added to the inspiring scene of flat boats loaded with traps, kettles and barrels of gun powder crossing the wide river.  Wiliam was one of about a hundred braves dressed in bright, colored blankets, standing straight and proud.  This short-lived ceremony gave way to hardship.