Easter Parade

In your Easter bonnet
With all the frills upon it
You’ll be the grandest lady
In the Easter parade

I’ll be all in clover
And when they look you over
I’ll be the proudest fellow
In the Easter parade

We were at the light.  Thirty-five miles away from the church where we would hear the Easter story yet again.

Maybe I should have been thinking holy thoughts on a holy day.  But I wasn’t.  My mind is always in perpetual stream-of-consciousness.  I don’t think that’s “normal,” but then again, it’s the only mind I’ve got, so I don’t know.  I often think I would like to try someone else’s brain for a bit.  Just to see.

What I was thinking at that moment was that I had become complacent.  That I no longer pay attention to life.  Don’t notice that things are going on all around me anymore.  That’s suicide if you write.

She got out on the passenger side and walked in front of the truck.  She didn’t look back.  Started walking back toward town.  Expressionless.

She was wearing white jeans and platform heels.  Blue blouse.  Looked straight out of the ‘70’s.  Out of the every-day fashion then, at least.  Not out of church fashion.  Ladies wore their finery to church in those days.  Pretty spring dresses and hats.  I miss those hats.

But she was dressed for today’s church.  The church that more than half of America doesn’t attend.

I couldn’t help thinking how important it is to always wear comfortable shoes.  Never know when you’ll have to get out and walk away from your family on Easter Sunday.

“I reckon she’s had enough” I say.

“Yep” replied the Redhead.

That’s a benefit of living with someone for nearly forty years.  Economy of words.  Hemingway on steroids.

The man was comical in a dark sort of way.  Looked straight ahead.  Like nothing had just happened.

I look for kids.  Please God, let there be no children in this Easter drama.

“What did you get for Easter? “

“Well I got a chocolate bunny and some colored eggs and mommy jumped out of the truck on the way to church.”

Easter isn’t what it used to be.  But nothing else is either. 

Have you noticed?

A Christmas Memory

It must have been 1968 or ’69. Our neighbors across the road erected the first life-size (or nearly so) Nativity that my little-boy eyes had ever seen.

Today it would be considered tacky, but back then it was quite the spectacle. The stable built with sawmill slabs and floored with hay, all the characters arranged perfectly around the manger.  I am sure it cost a pretty penny, even in ’60’s dollars.

It was a lot like this photo:

I have always wondered why they did it. As far as I know, they weren’t religious in any sense of the word. They could have chosen Santa Claus and his reindeer or a Frosty the Snowman scene just as easily (actually they would add all that over the next few years). All were available in the Sears Wish Book. But the real mystery was why spend all that time, money and effort since we lived so far out in the country? Not much chance anyone was actually going to see it. Except us. We lived right across the road, and it was practically at the end of our driveway.

The crowning touch was that the whole display was wired for sound — full stereo— with a continuous loop of Christmas music playing from speakers carefully hidden in the stable.

The only problem was that there wasn’t a big selection of tunes on that loop.  I am sure there had to be some old standards befitting the solemness of that singular day in history. Maybe Silent Night or Angels We Have Heard on High. But the only song I can remember hearing, over and over and over again, was this one.

It stuck. To this day, I can’t look at a Nativity scene and not hear Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.

Author’s note: I first wrote a version of this piece in 2012. I heard the song today and it brought it back to mind.

One Word

I do not write about politics in Words Not On Paper.  I could, and I would have more readers — a lot more than you few who spend your valuable time reading the little stories you find here.  But there are plenty of other places you can go if you want to read someone’s opinion.  Head on over to some social media site or watch television “news” if that sort of thing floats your boat.

That being stated, I want to make an observation on the video we have all seen.

I watched it three times before I caught something I had somehow previously missed.  Just one word:  “momma.”

At that point, I knew he was going to because he knew he was going to die.

It is more common than you might think for that one word to be among a person’s last.

I stood by my grandmother’s bed in a hospital in Birmingham, AL back in 1983.  She was 87 years old and near death, but I had not lived enough life at that point to understand that it was going to our last time together.  I bumbled around, attempting to engage her in some sort of conversation.  Things like “Hey granny, remember that time we did this or went there?”  She just listened, expressionless.

After a long silence a remarkable thing happened.  A big tear rolled down her cheek and she said, “I want my momma.”

I puzzled over that for years.  Why would she say such a thing?  She had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  Her mother had been dead 30 years, and it had been over 70 since she had been in her care.

Then a few years ago I read Shelby Foote’s remarkable historical narrative The Civil War.

Foote dispelled any notion of Romanticism about that war.  Most of it was fought in an old-fashioned way, in which two armies faced each other in parallel lines and charged over open ground until one or both retreated and fell back.  But the carnage was unimaginable because the weapons were not old-fashioned:  accurate repeating rifles, metal bullets, and heavy artillery.

The battles ended at sunset.  If the contest had yet to be decided, both armies regrouped and waited for dawn on either side of the killing field, with hundreds or even thousands of casualties lying in the dark between them.  The wounded and dead, intertwined and stacked like cord wood.

The historical record reveals that many of the dying cried out through the long night.  The one word heard more than any other was “momma.”

I do not know if there is a rational explanation for this.  Grown men and old women, all seeking comfort from a single word.

Perhaps the dying see what the living cannot.  Death standing there with a crooked smile and stinking breath, his bony fingers reaching toward them.  Then they need to hold momma’s hand.  To seek comfort from the one who put a Band-Aid on their skinned knee or put a cool washcloth on their forehead when they had a fever.  The one who always said, “Hush baby, it is going to be alright.” Because it always was alright.

The mystical power of one word.

Rest in peace.  In those last moments I hope you saw your momma.

Needful Things

dry garden

Steps slow and measured.  Bare feet in the furrow, wisps of chalky dust trailing.  Tomorrow’s dew will settle the powder, but only until the sun peels the ridgetop. Until then a visage of singular puffs, the prints fossilized afarensis along some ancient Saharan riverbed.

The rows 36 apart, predestined and foreordained by the plow.  The seed carefully placed one to a finger-shaped hole. One to two inches deep, three to six between.  Covered by a little pat, the tenderness almost sentimental, usually reserved for the head of a good dog or a beloved grandchild.

Heart of a poet, not a farmer.

Daybreak after planting, the sky cracked-open.  Four inches in a matter of a few hours.  I stood in the midst and watched, a visage of some forlorn and demented scarecrow in a sea of swirling black feathers.  Sweat-soaked in the eve, rain-soaked in the morn.

The rows held fast, anchored to the earth by some unseen force.  Perhaps or perchance through a shaman’s trance, lips moving inaudible prayers or curses into a turbulent sky.

A week passed.  Two weeks.  Now three.

The sky sealed by a celestial signet.  Heat building each day, stacked like strata viewed bottom-up.

Such tender shoots.  Promises of ears, pods, and succulents.  Colors not green but off-green, wilting and folding inward like ancient scrolls exposed after centuries of desiccation.

Tomorrow dawn I stretch the hose.  Waters of survival only, creating a mirage of an oasis.  Temporal relief.  Water from pipes stave-off, but they do not nourish.  Treated is for human, rain for plants.

Sunday morning shower, rinse, repeat.

Odds makers book Monday at six in ten, but never wager against the home team, especially in Alabama.

I look heavenward and wait, my nursery of babes waiting to be suckled.

A Fish Tale

bass

I caught a fish when I was a kid.  A big fish.  A really big fish.

I caught him, but not in the sense you might think.

I am not a fisherman by any stretch of the imagination.  I have landed some fish over a lifetime, but barely enough to mention.  If fishing is a gift, then I must have been standing in the wrong line that day.

Truth is, I am a lousy fisherman. I once stood between two men on the State Pier at Gulf Shores, Alabama.  I had the same gear and bait and fished in the exactly the same manner.  Both were pulling them in as fast as their bait hit the water.  Me?  Not a nibble.

It was not from lack of effort.  I grew up just down the road from a small lake where I fished as a kid.  Mostly with a cane pole, but later with a small rod and a “Zebco 202” reel, which was the ‘70’s version of a poor man’s gear.  I would occasionally catch a few, but not enough to have a decent fish fry.

My frustration must have shown, because one day my dad said “You really want to catch some fish?  I’ll show you how.”

He went down to our old shed and returned with a roll of chicken wire.  He cut a piece and fashioned a cylinder about two feet in diameter.  Wired up the back end with a flat piece and made an inverted cone for the other end.  Cut a little door on the top just big enough to stick a hand through.  Tied a cotton rope to it to throw it out and retrieve it.

“Now here’s the secret,” he said.  He hung a little bag made from a nylon stocking from the top.  It was filled with dry dog food. “Fish just love that smell.”

This was how his contraption worked:  a fish pushed its way in through the small end of the cone.  Once in, it could not get back out.

It is called a “fish trap,” and it was illegal in Alabama.

We made a path through the woods from our house to the back end of the lake.  Cut the bushes back just enough to put the basket in and out.

The next day we went back.  I pulled it in and there were four decent-sized shell crackers.  I was elated.  I could finally catch fish.

I checked the trap every day when I got home from school.  Some days there would be a few, other days none.  I threw them all back, because there was never enough to make a “mess of fish,” which means enough to clean and eat.

One afternoon about two weeks later dad got home early.  “Let’s go down and check the basket.”

When I pulled the basket in there was only one fish.  A really big fish.  A ten-pound Largemouth Bass.

I’ll never forget the sight of my daddy reaching down into that basket, grabbing that big bass by the mouth, and throwing him as far as he could back into the woods so that he couldn’t flop back in the water.

We headed to the taxidermist to have him mounted, but first we stopped off at the local newspaper to have my picture made holding up that big bass.  The caption something like “Local Boy Snags Trophy Bass.”

But there was a small problem.  I did not catch it.  I trapped it.

I had to think up a tale.

When the paper came out, everyone congratulated me, but that was always followed by the inevitable fishing questions: “Where did you catch it?  What time of day?  What bait did you use?” How did you land it?”

And the answers were “At my secret fishing spot, just before sunset, with a purple artificial worm.  I put it down nice and easy next to a snag about three feet off the bank.  He hit it fast.  Took me 15 minutes to land him.  He put up a fight like you wouldn’t believe.”

The story got a little better every time I told it.  Before long it was good enough to be in Field and Stream magazine.

Funny thing was, the more I told that story the more I started to believe it myself.  Whenever I told it I could feel the pull as it leapt out of the water.  See the glistening colors framed against that orange sunset.  Sense the fear that it would break my line before I landed it.

If I had a dollar for every time I told that lie you wouldn’t be reading this, because I’d be spending all my time fishing for trout in the stream behind my cabin in Montana.

I kept that mounted bass on my wall wherever I lived for at least 30 years.  I told my story every time a visitor admired it.

Eventually the mount became so yellowed and cracked that I threw it away.  Or maybe the Redhead did.  She never really liked it to begin with.

So, the tale finally came to an end.

But before you go, hang on a second.  Did I ever tell you about the time I caught a monster bass when I was just ten years old?  Man, did he ever put up a fight.  You see I was fishing right about sunset one afternoon…”