Widow Minerva Jenkins has lived alone in her small mountain home for 40 years where she has guarded her husband’s deathbed request. When a young reporter comes calling and inquires about a rumored box of gold on her property, an unlikely friendship forms. Will she go to her grave with her husband’s secret, or will the weight of it be the death of her?

My name is Minerva Jane Jenkins, and I reckon I’ve always been a force to be reckoned with. As we meet, in the spring of 1902, I have reached the ripe age of 94, and well, my days are numbered. I’ve lived on this mountain for the better part of my life. I can’t tell you why the good Lord opted to number my days to this length, and I sometimes spar that decision with Him. Still, the Lord knows what is best for us, and He’s seen fit to give me 94 years – even though they have been lonesome years, I’ve made do, and I’m happy.

About my family

Lordy, mercy, my family is long gone. Another reason I questioned the good Lord’s reasonin’ for leaving me here so long. I married Stately Jenkins when I was fifteen, and he was seventeen. He’d come from the war with a bummed-up leg and a sour attitude toward the north. But then, he was a true and faithful Confederate soldier. I lived in Lexington at the time, the daughter of a railroad laborer, so when I finished tenth grade, and they was no more school available, the timin’ was right for Stately to come into my life. We married, and he up and moved us to Shoal Mountain, six miles from the tiny town of Barbourville, Kentucky. I never saw my momma and daddy again, but that’s what happens when you marry and move away. I heard by way of a letter when daddy died and then by chance when momma passed. Lordy, I miss them to this day. Still, Stately built us a life on the side of a mountain overlooking the river, and though it was a beautiful place, I was never able to share it with children. I loved my husband, and I thought he loved me. After all, he married me and brought me to this mountain, not some floozy from Lexington.

What advice do you have to share about your 94 years?

Lawsy mercy, I suppose that would be the one thing that still nags me. The one question I’ve asked myself for years. How long does a body keep a promise, even if it’s detrimental? My momma told me once, don’t never make a promise you can’t keep. A promise is a person’s word, and your word is your integrity. She told me, don’t get loose-lipped and trust to tell when you’ve promised not to – and here I sit at 94 years old, holdin’ on to a promise, a secret I regretted making fifty years ago. See, Stately’s heart give out, and as I sat holding his dying body in my arms, he never said he loved me. Instead, he said, “Minerva, keep the secret. Promise me.” Before I had time to think it through like my momma told me, Stately grabbed my arm and shouted in his last breath, “Promise me!” And I did. It’s been a promise that has weighed me down for the remainder of my life. How long do you keep a promise? I’ve asked myself that question for over fifty years on this lonely mountain. Best I can determine is … you keep it to the grave. My advice – don’t make a promise you can’t keep. If you’re waiting for me to give out Stately’s secret, then it might just be until the death of you cause I’ll never utter a word. 

What would you say you are most afraid of?

Can’t say I’m rightly afraid of much. I’ve stared down that ole bear that lives up the holler – managed to draw a line in the dirt for the old cuss when I aimed my rifle at his rear and filled it with buckshot. He quit crossin’ over my line after that. This old woman ain’t got much, but I got smarts. Stately taught me farmin’ so can shoot a squirrel or rabbit. I’ve fished, raised myself a good garden, and stored away taters and green beans. I’ve ground my flour, made butter, traded for my sugar and salt, and cut years’ worth of wood for my fires, but if I was honest. If I was truly honest, my fear ain’t in dying. It’s in dying alone. Wouldn’t nary a soul know I’d passed on up here on this mountain. I’ll just drop dead one day and lay to the bone where I fell ’cause they ain’t a soul up here to bury me.

Is there anyone who has made a difference in your life?

I don’t have to think long on that question, for they’ve only come along in the last year. Oddly, what brought them into my life was that blessed old promise I made – Stately’s secret. The one I was bound to hold quiet by a promise. A young reporter, Delano Rankin, come up from Lexington looking for answers to a story he’d got wind of, one that said my Stately had a stash of gold and that he’d even murdered for the stash. My lips was sealed tight about anything Stately might have said or done, but the man kept hangin’ around. He did something a soul ain’t be able to do in fifty years. Del wormed his way into my heart, and in the few months I had with him, he grew to be like the child I’d never had. It took time for me to believe his intentions was true, but once I come to know his heart, I could see the good Lord had answered the one prayer I’d prayed since Stately died. “Don’t let me die alone.” Del was there. Then there was Robert Jr. and Cherry Blessing. I can only say, Robert Jr. was the spittin’ image of his daddy Robert, Sr. who helped me bury Stately. Robert and Cherry was balm for my soul, the comfort and peace that a good man and his wife could be as an old woman lay dying. Yes, they was the peace my soul needed.

Is there anything else you’d like to share with us that has brought meaning to your life?

I’d have to steal a few words from Del about that. And that is that wealth ain’t always found in a would-be box of gold. It’s found in the relationships we build with others. It’s found deep in the hearts of them “old people” that city folks call “elderly.” There’s a lifetime of experience, insight, and wisdom. There’s a gift of the story in their lives, and the fulfillment of a life well-lived. I’d have to say, spend time with them old coggers that you might consider troublesome or wearin’ on you because when you don’t, you’re passin’ up a wealth that money can’t bring. The gold is in lives of them old folks. Seek it out. Find it. You might just be surprised how your life is changed by knowin’ them.

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Cindy K. Sproles is an author, speaker, and conference teacher. Having served for several years as a managing editor for Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas and Ironstream Media. Cindy now works as a mentor, coach, and freelance editor. She co-founded Writing Right Author Mentoring Services with Lori Marett, and Cindy is the director of the Asheville Christian Writers Conference. Cindy is also the co-founder of Christian Devotions Ministries and www.christiandevotions.us, as well as www.inspireafire.com. Her devotions are in newspapers and magazines nationwide, and her novels have become award-winning best-selling works. She is a popular speaker at conferences and a natural encourager. Cindy is a mountain girl, born and raised in the Appalachian mountains, where she and her husband reside. She has raised four sons and now resorts to raising chickens where the pecking order is easier to manage. You can visit Cindy at www.cindysproles.com or www.wramsforwriters.com.