Across the rippling creek and over a bridge with rusty rails, I followed Mama, who was carrying a warm chocolate cake.
Like any four-year-old, I stopped at the center of the bridge, watching the lazy water bubble toward the Chattahoochee.
“Little ‘un, c’mon,” Mama called over her shoulder. I ran to catch up.
Within a couple of minutes, we reached our destination: a small shack with a porch that sagge…