The Ground Between Us

Chapter 2

Inherited Land

            I can’t believe this is happening. There was a time when we all sat on that porch together, laughing and rocking, never once thinking the day would come when we’d have to fight for what was ours. 

            “GG-Lucille, will you tell me the story about our land?”

            “Jazzy, you not tired of hearing that story?”

“No, ma’am, GG-Lucille. You tell it right. Pawpaw leaves out all the good stuff.”

“That’s because Pawpaw was away in the war,” she said.  “He wasn’t here to protect us the way he wanted.”

“But, y’all didn’t need no help, GG.”

 She smiled. “No, Jazzy. We didn’t need ANY help. As you get older, you’ll understand.”

  “GG-Lucille, will you please tell the story?”

“Little gal, when you get older, you’re gonna be a handful.”

            It was 1945.  I’d just had your grandma Mae-Lee.  She was only a few days old. My mother, Geraldine, and I were sittin’ on the porch drinkin’ our mornin’ coffee. The MPs had just left. They were out searching for Black men who were AWOL and making sure there were no other males in the house who hadn’t enlisted. At that time, your Pawpaw had already been gone for eighteen months.

            Ma, you recognize that car coming this here way.

Can’t say I do, Lucille. Take that baby in the house and get that rifle that’s sittin’ at the door. Come straight back, you hear?

Yes, ma’am. Straight back.

I took my baby into the house and laid her in the bed, surrounding her with pillows. I prayed over her to keep away all hurt, harm, and danger. I rushed back to the front of the house and grabbed the gun, then headed back outside.  Ma is sittin and sippin her coffee. I take my seat next to her and sip mine, too. When I look up, I see the strangers getting out of the car.

“Howdy ma’am’s. “How y’all doin’ on this fine day?”

“State your business here, sir, my mum says.”

“Yessum, I’m Bobb-.

I know who you are. My mama cuts him off—you Bobby Mavericks boy. As I said, sir, state your business here.

I looked at my momma. I know this isn’t the man’s son who tried to steal our land, I thought to myself.  

“This here is a fine piece of land you own. Do you mind if we look around?”

Yes, sir, we do mind. Ain’t no menfolk here right now. It’s improper for us married womenfolk to allow single menfolk such as yourselves ‘round the property.

“We don’t mean no harm, Miss-

It’s Mrs. Calhoun.

“We don’t mean no harm, Mrs. Calhoun.”

“How is it y’all menfolk ain’t in the war?

“Well, I’m my father's last son. My brother here was wounded in the last war, and he’s still bad off.”

I see, my mama said. Well, we will be praying for your family. Once our husbands are back from the war, y’all can speak with them.  

“How many acres do you have up here?”

On the Pointe, we have a little ova’ a hundred acres. Been in the family longer than I have been alive. I’m sure you already know that, though. Your kinfolk have been trying for years to own it.

“Mrs. Calhoun, do you have the deeds to this land? You know to show ownership?”

  What’s it to you, sir?

“I have gone to the tax collector's office, and they don’t seem to have the copies.”

That sounds like that’s their problem and not mine, don’t you think, sir?

“You know if you can’t show proof this is legally your land, I can-

I hate to cut you off, sir, but we ain’t buyin’ what you sellin’. We have everything that we need.  There ain’t nothing here that you Mavericks can claim. I’m the 5^th generation to own this land, and it will continue to be passed down. We haven’t sold it and won’t be selling it. We bid you a fine day, sir. 

They were walking off, but Bobby turned around.

  “Have you ever had your property surveyed? My daddy said part of this land is ours?”

Your daddy lied. Good day, sir.

Bobby scoffs and walks away.  

            As they were driving away, I said, mama, do you have the titles to this land?

Yes, baby, we have the titles. All of this land was bought at different times throughout the years. A little over 35% of this land is in Tennessee, and the rest is here in North Carolina. The Mavericks have been trying to buy the land in Tennessee. They claim that the land is theirs. We have had this land surveyed and marked. At the edge of the property is a lake that runs to the French Broad River.  That is the part that they claim is theirs.

I hear y’all always talking about that part of the land with the river. What’s so important about the river, Mama?

It’s not the river that’s important, it what’s behind the river.  There is a coalmine not too far from the river. You can only get to it from our side of the property. That’s what they are after.

  Why? What’s so important about an old coal mine? I asked.

Well, I was told by my GG, Peggy-Ann, that the coal mine was full of something of value. Her husband, Earl-James, and his brothers would go and mine those caves. That is how they were able to buy all of this land. That is how we have the farm. That is how we’ve lived off the land for so long.

What’s in there, Mama?

I can’t say myself, ‘cause I’ve never been down there.

Wahhhh.

There goes little bit. It’s time for her feeding…..

          That story stayed with me long after that day. The land was more than just land. It was survival. Legacy. Blood, sweat, and quiet prayers, buried deep beneath the soil.  Now standing here years later, I feel the weight of every word GG-Lucielle spoke.

GG-Lucielle, I miss you so much. Tears drop from my eyes. I know it’s the Mavericks, GG. Who else would have brought big equipment back here and cut the locks off this gate? Look at these tire marks.  I have to get home and get the recordings. I want to see who had the gall to trespass on our land. I got this GG-Lucielle. It will be a cold day before I let them take our land. This land remembers whose blood built it. And so, do I.

Crimson Steed is a reflective writer and contributor exploring faith, transition, womanhood, and the sacred rhythms of growth. Her work centers on spiritual insight, emotional honesty, and the quiet wisdom found in seasons of waiting and becoming. Her reflections invite readers to release shame, honor the process, and trust divine timing.

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