They was about to cross the Virginia state line, just outside a place called Whitetown, which didn’t give nobody in that vehicle a good feeling, when they had to pull over to the side of the road-one of those roads that no colored person wanted to be on at night-just so that gal could push that baby out. See, her mama and daddy was migrating up North from Gastonia, North Carolina, riding in the back of a wagon with her grandmother and two other distant kinfolk from down that way, when her mama’s water broke. She came into this world through one of the forks in the road and Clara being Clara, she chose the rockier way. Cold or hot, salty or sweet, lion or lamb.
Her spirit, unlike most, had a choice to make right there at the beginning. Some folks say, it wasn’t just being born with a caul that made Clara Johnson ornery as a red hornet, it was being born at the crossroads.
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