I found Clyde in Mississippi.

She would be surprised I think, if she knew how often she crosses my mind.

Like last week, at 5:15 a.m. Tuesday morning, when my coffee maker would not start.

I toggled the switch, unplugged it, plugged it in and tried it again but nothing worked.

No matter how many times I flipped the switch or banged it on the counter it would not come on.

And then, just before I went into a wild fit of desperation and rage, I remembered the coffee percolator my sister-in-law had given Justin for Christmas a couple of years ago.

He uses it on the wood stove he has in the barn.

But I had never used it. I wasn’t even sure if I knew how to use it, but I was determined to figure it out. And I thought about Clyde, back in Clayhill, and how she used a percolator. She never had a coffee maker, and yet all of the McClure clan gathered around her table and hearth to visit and have coffee.

When I was little I used to love for my dad to tell me stories about growing up during the time of the radio, the time just before everyone had televvision, especially in the backwoods of Marengo County.

It’s still woods.

And the McClure’s are all gone. Gone and yet eternally there in my mind.

They would get together, most every Friday and Saturday night, to circle the radio. But their talking would often trump the broadcasting. The McClure’s held strong opinions and had the gift of storytelling, combined with an appreciation for humor.

When we are traveling on back roads between Camden and Red Level, driving mile after mile of nothing but woods and the occasional old home place – if the clouds are right or there is fog rolling in or darkness is shadowing, it’s like we could drive up on them.

It’s as if around any curve they could be there, Clyde making coffee using a percolator on the stove.

Which is crazy

It’s not going to happen.

Clyde is in a cemetery in Mississippi. I found her on a genealogy search.

She had been Tom McClure’s second wife, after his first, my great grandmother, had died during a flu epidemic.

And after he died years later, Clyde moved on. She was 35 years his junior and had never had children, with him having five already for her to help with.

After they were grown and he was gone, who could blame her for leaving Clayhill.

She remarried, and judging from the nice plot he picked for her before he joined her, he loved her.

I bought a new coffee maker. But for that one morning…it was like having coffee with Clyde.

Amanda Walker is a columnist and contributor with AL.com, The Birmingham News, Selma Times Journal, Thomasville Times, West Alabama Watchman, and Alabama Gazette. Contact her at [email protected] or at https://www.facebook.com/AmandaWalker.Columnist.