Wednesday, May 29, 2024

Decoration Day

You make it a point to grab your sunglasses.  It's cloudy but there will come a moment when you need to hide your eyes and smile.  Today you make the drive alone, leaving the wife and angels at home.  You know the road well though you've not driven it in a year.  It's Decoration Day.

Every road, field, and closed-down business you pass seems to hold a memory.  The old Dairy Queen where you spent so many nights in your twenties -- it was a wild decade.  

There are sheets and shards of rusted tin where the flea market once stood, bustling every Saturday and Sunday forty years ago.  

Most of the backstop is still standing behind the old little league field where you'd watch your cousin play.  The rest of the fence is gone, but the dilapidated dugouts, bleachers, and press box stand as an effigy to a thousand mosquitoed spring and summer evenings under floodlights.

Down a holler and back up the other side is the turn-off for Roller Coaster Road.  Do kids today still fly down it, pushing a hundred?  Or has that gone the way of cassette players, hanging out at the arcade, and twenty-five-cent phone calls?  Either way, you're thankful for those heart-flipping days of twenty-something.

When you pass the old Pit Stop, you look to see if the payphone booth is still there.   It is, though there's been no phone in it for many years.  A thought begins to form.  You've been inside more of the closed-down businesses on this road than the handful of new ones that have popped up.

Next up is the spot where the paved road once ended and came to a T.  Where one night LJ flipped his baby blue Taurus, and you climbed out the passenger window, which was at that time serving as the top of the vehicle.  

There's no longer a T.  And the road is paved all the way through now, which is probably safer, if less conducive t- certain one-day-we'll-look-back-and laugh memories.

Finally, you pass the last two churches you ever stepped foot in.  First is the church your father still attends.  You count six cars in the parking lot.  You feel sad.  And a little guilty.  

Less than two miles past that is what you will only ever refer to as Mamaw's church.  You think about her teaching the little kids in Sunday school before taking her place as a fixture on the second row every week.

Once you leave the blacktop, you shift into a different gear.  About three-quarters of a mile down a well-shaded dirt road, you turn onto another unpaved road that leads up to the cemetery.  

You count the cars.  There are maybe nine or ten -- fewer each year.  Somehow the small smattering of still-breathing souls makes the cemetery seem more lonesome than if there were no one here at all.

A decade ago, there would be cars sitting off in the grass on both sides.  You'd have to park halfway down the road and walk up, but today you park just across from the gate.  One last deep breath to prepare and a straightening of the sunglasses.  

There are maybe twenty people spread sparsely around the property.  You say hello to fave aunt and one first cousin who are sitting just inside the fence under a grove of trees.  The sun has come out now.

You come to Uncle John's grave first.  He is buried by the south fence, away from most of the rest of the family, as they ran out of room in that area.  His widow -- your aunt -- and two of his four children are present today.  

As you will be several times today, you are jarred by the date of death and left in near disbelief at how long someone has been gone.

Just past him, also right along the fence, you see Mister L.A.'s grave next to his beloved Miss Mary.  A faded American flag flies above them -- his dying wish.  The thought elicits a sad smile.

You make the left turn past Baby Boy Campbell's gravesite (birth and death dates unknown).  As always, you catch a chill.  And it has nothing to do with the westerly breeze, which is welcomed by all on this predictably humid, late May morn.  

Many of the graves are poorly marked.  You do your best to not step on any as you make your way northward to where your mother is talking with one of her eldest nephews.

Of your mother's eleven siblings, only two have shown up today.  One is too sick, another lives in Florida, and a third you're not sure about.  Six of the seven who have already passed are buried here.  

You try and count your first cousins.  Out of thirty-one on your mom's side, twenty-nine of whom are still living, you are one of five here.

Your mom and cousin stand, maybe out of habit, where the huge eastern red cedar tree once stood.  It was struck down by lightning some years ago.  In its time, there would always be seven, eight, or ten gathered on the shady side, taking shelter from the unforgiving Alabama sun.  Your bald head feels its absence more than most.

You survey more dates and headstones and realize that your chain-smoking uncle died at fifty, less than four months after his mother.  He and his wife babysat you and your sister a few times.  They'd let you roll cigarettes for them.  Back then, they looked so very old, but would have been younger than you are today.  

One cousin takes his daughters--ages 17 and 20--around, showing them the names on the headstones and explaining who each family member is.  He relays a story about each -- those he has memories of anyway.   The girls vow they will continue to come back here, that the graves won't be forgotten.  You hope it's true.

It's one tradition that hasn't changed, even with so many fewer people.  There are always the stories.  And usually at least one you have never heard.

Today's is about how "Uncle Wiley" accidentally killed his three-year-old son.  There are two very different versions that you hear on the very same day.  Mom says he had gone into a store and thought his son was still in the truck.  When he came out, he backed over him.  Fave aunt says he was loading hay bales onto the back of a truck, one went over the other side and landed on his boy.  

You're unsure which is most likely to be true.  Heck, you still haven't gotten a consistent story on your uncle who served time for second-degree murder.  The woman he was in love with supposedly paid a man to kill someone else, but claimed my uncle was the one who had paid them.  

"She set him up" and "He just loved her so much, he took the fall for it" seem to be the most common explanations you hear.  He was sentenced to twenty years, though I'm fairly certain he served less than that.  

And there again, as you always do on this day, you think to yourself how you need to ask more questions, listen to more stories, and write them down.  But will you?  

You should.  Somebody should.  

The voices of the storytellers are steadily fading.

Friday, May 24, 2024

Anecdotal

I was first called a hippie
At the ripened age of forty-two
Thought about it for a minute
Then shrugged, "I guess that's true"

You ever think about all the things
That make you, you?
The faces and the places
And the battles you've been thru

Uncle drove us by a cross-burning
In nineteen and seventy-eight
I'd like to think he was a good man
But I can't understand that hate

Was a teacher in fourth grade
Made fun of how I talked
Does it make you feel big
To make a nine-year-old feel so small?

Momma had a George Wallace sign
In our front yard
Some things never die
And those that do die real hard

Was a rumor got spread
I beat up the school bully when I was ten
I never shot it down
And I never had to fight again

I remember her perfume
And leaning back the seat in her car
She placed my hand on her breast
'Cause she knew I'd never been that far

Six months on she was falling
For some spoiled rich kid
Wrote me letters later on
But I was never going back again

Lost my last grandparent
In nineteen and ninety-two
Left a hole I'd never fill
And I bailed like a bat out of school

Got engaged to a girl
With green eyes and teenage dreams
Haven't heard from her in years
But she's sewn into my seams

She left without a word
After two years of my mood swings
I've come to realize
That's the only way to truly leave

Mom and Dad divorced
December, two thousand and three
It took me years to understand
The cold effect it had on me

Momma got an apartment
And Daddy sold the house in June
You want to go home
But there's no place to go home to

I leaned heavy on my sister
And she leaned heavy on me
There's nothing like someone
Who has seen the things you have seen

Met a girl I thought I'd marry
When I was thirty-three
Another great love lost
To some fucked up brain chemistry

I knew that it was over
But I still kept hanging on
We all want closure
But sometimes closure never comes

Do you ever think about all the things
That make you, you?
The faces and the places
And the battles you've been thru

Thursday, May 16, 2024

50 shades of magenta

Stars fell on Alabama.  I don't know who coined the phrase.  Perhaps it was Carl Carmer, who titled his book just that in the 1930's.  The song was written and recorded not long thereafter.  I'm still partial to Jimmy Buffett's version.  And the slogan would make its way onto license plates in the state back in the early twenty-aughts.

Its origin was in reference to a spectacular--and evidently terrifying--Leonid meteor shower back in 1833.  Some thought the world was ending, as "thousands, even millions" of the meteors streaked across the sky seemingly in every direction for hours, according to a local newspaper report at the time.  Bibles were dusted off, while playing cards and dice were set ablaze.

What a sight it must have been!  (The meteors, I mean.  But I'm sure the incineration of those devices of Satan was pretty cool, too.)

It's one of the first things I thought of as I stood in the backyard Friday evening and stared skyward in something beyond amazement at the northern lights.  Yes, yon aurora borealis.  In Alabama!

The local weather guesstimater had said the best time for viewing would be around 2 a.m.  In my younger years, I might've stayed up to watch.  But not now.  Not in these aged, child-rearing years.

A little after 9:00, as I was easing the sting of the Bruins getting demolished by Florida with several sips of Rebel Cask Strength, I received a text from my dear momma: "Go outside look north and see the northern lights."

It took a bit for my eyes to adjust.  At first, I thought I saw a few streaks of red, maybe some purple, but couldn't be sure.  Then I looked more northwestward.  And oh my!  It looked like the glow of city lights, except in fifty shades of magenta, purple, and green.

I pictured those early settlers, panicked, running thru the streets, wasting perfectly good dice.  Just then, I heard some commotion coming from across the road.  I peered over the fence to see the neighbor scurrying thru the subdivision in his wife-beater, whilst wearing a headlamp.

Now normally, I wouldn't have thought anything of it.  He is known to drink and partake in certain illegal substances.  But on this night, I found it more than coincidental.  Maybe he didn't know about the northern lights.  Maybe he thought the aliens had finally landed, and he was off to hunt them.  I chuckled as I thought to myself, "Not all heroes wear capes."

Anyhow, I quickly returned to the spectacular view, grabbing my phone to take a few pictures.  And I wished they'd had cell phone cameras back in 1833.  Mrs. Bone came out and sky-gazed with me for a bit.  I regret not waking the kids.  We considered it.  Luke, especially, would have loved it...


It is Saturday now.  The cat prowls and kids play beneath the river birches. Mom comes over for an early Mother's Day supper.  She plays soccer with Luke, while Harper and I snuggle in the hammock.  Mrs. B cooks fried okra, squash casserole, macaroni & cheese, and collard greens.  The garden has sprouted.  The grass is freshly mown.  I hear the 13-year and 17-year cicadas on my evening walk/run.

There's so much ugly in the world.  So much hate, anger, and violence.  It is good to be reminded there is still immeasurable beauty to be found.  A lot of times in your own backyard.

Like the night the northern lights shone on Alabama.

I just wish Jimmy Buffett had still been alive to see them.

Wednesday, May 08, 2024

Subterranean by design

I heard the cicadas this morning
And my soul stopped
For some precious seconds
To soak it in
Such a blithe chorus
Trumpeting their arrival
Long-awaited but forever on time
And as so often am I
In these older years
I found myself taken back
By their summer song
Thirteen, seventeen
Twenty-six, thirty-four
Thirty-nine years ago
I'm in Uncle John's field
Catching fireflies in a jar
Tying string around a June bug
Then I'm lying on a trampoline
In my parents' backyard--
--my backyard!
And I can hear them hum
It seems they were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen)
Trips around the sun
Just then
The abacus in my brain gets done
It has arrived at fifty-one...
Fifty-one!
And I realize with a smile
And the warmth
Of a Christmastime fireplace
We share a birthday
These creatures and I
For their reassuring refrain
Would have been
Among the earliest sounds
My ears would know
Under that mulberry tree
In my mother's arms
By the old Dodge Dart
In sand-pebble beige
No wonder it seems
They were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen) years
Subterranean by Design
This is no overnight sensation
To abide that long
Almost a lifespan
In the underground scene
Then to emerge
For but a few weeks
To cause such a ruckus
To stir up a childhood
To elicit such heart smiles
This is no minor feat

I heard the cicadas this morning
(Magicicada, scientifically)

Magic?

Indeed!

Monday, May 06, 2024

Cross-pollination and such

I was at a birthday party for a 6-year-old.  (Ah, the countless stories that have so begun.)  Direct sunlight and the steam bath of humidity beckoned me to take shelter on the covered porch.   It was there I struck up a conversation with the guest of honor's mom.

We began to discuss our children's separate schools.  (What?  They're just different.  But equal!  I promise.  We've almost completely eliminated blatant segregation in Alabama...  Now it's more understated.)

Another mom sitting on the porch chimed in about her daughter.  Now I only knew one other kid at this party, a girl named Morgan.  She's been over to the house a few times and I've spoken with her mother here and there.  And I thought -- emphasis on thought -- that this newcomer to the conversation was Morgan's mom.  So this is what I said to her:

"Does your daughter go to their school, as well?"
"Yes."
"Man, we sure do miss her."

Now, it is here that she should have said something to the effect of, "She misses Luke and Harper, too" or "I know, we'll have to get them together sometime soon."

Instead, she did not respond verbally at all, but rather a look.  Half uncertainty/confusion, and half stay-far-far-away-from-my-daughter-you-weirdo-freak.  OK, maybe two-thirds the latter.  Then for some reason, she began looking around as if she were frantically trying to locate her daughter and make sure she was safe.

Flipping curse word!  This is not Morgan's mom.

So right on cue, I casually meandered off the porch.  Checked my watch.  Oh good, just ninety more minutes of awkwardness.  So I spent the rest of the party fanning my arm pits and trying to avoid this stranger, who thinks some possible child abductor misses her young daughter, who he's never met.

And this is why I never socialize.

The remainder of the weekend was much less awkward.  I got the garden planted on Saturday with a little help from the kids.  We are trying tomatoes, yellow squash, lettuce, cucumbers, okra, and a couple of different peppers this year.

Then came the hard part--the cat-proofing.  Now I don't know for certain, but I would be willing to bet that anytime I have planted a garden in her lifetime, Sunshine thinks I have created the world's largest litter box, all for her.

Why do I think this?  Because upon first seeing the freshly planted bed each year, she proceeds to immediately treat it as such.  Pretty sure this had something to do with our poor okra production last year and why the carrots never came up.

Anyway I've got some fencing around it, which she can completely jump over, by the way, as I found out last year.  So I've covered it completely with some netting that I have staked into the ground.  

If you have any tips for something I can put out to keep cats out of a garden, without harming the cat, my produce would appreciate it.  (I'm looking at you, Ed and Sage. Aka: my two readers.)

And if you encounter a dad at a kid's birthday party who says something awkward about your child, I mean, it could be a predator.  But more likely, it's just a dad, who doesn't really pay attention to much, doesn't even want to be there in the first place, and is making an extraordinarily minimal effort to converse.

So relax.  Your daughter's fine.  I was just talking to her, right over there.

The real Morgan's mom did come over later and introduce herself.  As she approached I noted to myself how she really did not look much like the other lady at all.

"Hey, I'm Morgan's mom."

I reach up to offer a handshake.

"Of course! I remember you."

Wednesday, May 01, 2024

The son becomes the father

"Dads are like backup quarterbacks in the NFL.  On the rare occasion you're brought into the game, people are nervous.  You're good for a play or two, but then people are like, when's the starter coming back?" - James Gaffigan

Mrs. Bone was visiting her homeland this past weekend, so I was called up to active duty.  You know it's going well when it's still the first day and you're already getting the "When is Mama coming home?" question.  I'm like, bruh, she's gone longer than this when she goes to work!

Kids: Too young to survive on their own.  Too old to drop off in the safe haven box in front of the fire station.

You might recall (from two posts ago) that I nearly died one of the last times Mrs. Bone split.  Well, I'm thinking there must be some sort of subconscious psychosomatic forces at work, because on Friday, I began to feel ill again.  Felt feverish on Saturday with all sorts of mucous emanating from my nose and throat.  Just wanted to stay in bed all day.  (But again, too young to survive on their own.  Although I really think they would've been okay for a few hours, child protective services can be a stickler sometimes on things like that.)

Instead, I laid on the couch, dozing every few minutes, then being awoken by Luke nudging me, "Daddy?"  "Yes, buddy?"  "You're snoring."  "Sorry, buddy."  Cough.  Rinse.  Repeat.

A neighbor came over to check on me/us on Saturday.  "Do you need anything?"  I wanted to say, "Yes, please just watch my kids for like two hours so I can sleeeeeeep!"  But instead, I told her no, that we were fine.

At some point, I started thinking that I could never remember my parents being sick when I was a kid.  I remember big things, like Mom having to go to the emergency room when she slipped on ice one winter and split open her wrist.  But as far as colds, flus, etc., nothing comes to mind.

Maybe they just powered through, as a parent will.  Or maybe, just perhaps, I was outside playing somewhere in the neighborhood all day while they caught a nice little four-hour siesta.

I'd give anything if my kids could have that sort of childhood.  We would leave in the morning, or after school, and be gone for hours.  Dad would stand in the yard and yell across the land when it was suppertime, and we'd come home.

I wish they could know the freedom of riding bikes, being out of sight for hours, exploring the woods, the old rock crusher pond, building forts, killing snakes, and climbing trees.

Part of the issue is we don't live in a neighborhood.  Instead, we live on a fairly busy two-lane road, with no sidewalk.  It's also possible I/we have helicoptered a bit too much.  And by possible, I mean, it's a stone-cold fact and probably an understatement.  But how could you not in this day and time?

I don't think my parents ever worried about some stranger walking down the street snatching us up and abducting us.  They probably wished for it some days.  After all, one of Mom's favorite sayings was, "Why don't ya'll go play in the road in front of an 18-wheeler?"  You gotta chuckle at those folksy Southernisms passed down from generation to generation.  Of course, Mom grew up on a one-lane dirt road, so... probably no 18-wheelers.  Hmm.  Oh well, who knows where old sayings come from.

It's only been in the last year that I've convinced Luke he can go out front and play basketball by himself.  Of course, as soon as I don't hear the rhythmic pounding of ball on pavement for more than five consecutive seconds, I rush to the window to look out and make sure he is ok.  He, in turn, will come inside if he sees a stranger walking down the road.  

And I'm glad he does it!  I just hate that he has to.

We had fire drills and tornado drills.  My kids have lockdown drills.

I try to be so careful not to let them hear or know my fears.  Let them be little and feel safe for as long as they can.  But at the same time, I want them to be smart, and recognize when something is dangerous.  Can you be fearless and cautious at the same time?

This dad thing, I tell ya.  You want to push them, but not too much.  You want to protect them, hold and help them, while somehow teaching them to be independent.  Mostly, you want to give them every opportunity to be healthy and happy while stressing over every single decision and hoping you're not screwing them up.

It's exhausting.  

Which is why, after getting them safely to school on time Monday morning, Daddy called out sick from work and came home and slept until noon.  Because just as my parents understood the value, yea necessity, of a solid four-hour nap, so does their favorite son.

But hey, we made it through relatively unscathed.  I didn't die.  Didn't even wind up in the hospital this time.   And by the end of the weekend, I even had Harper on her knees begging me to let her clean the cabinets.  (Don't ask about the stars.  OK, it's a pick your battles thing.  Also, I have discovered that "gotta pick your battles" is something you can say anytime you let your kids do whatever they want.)

Friends, this is how you dad.  Or at least how I dad.  

Lord in heaven, please don't let me screw it up.