blessings – Words Not On Paper

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, music, southern writing

Little Ship of Dreams

April 17, 2024April 17, 2024by rayclifton15 Comments

I got an email one morning just the other day that announced the upcoming North American Tour of the ‘70s rock band Heart. A stop in Birmingham later this year, and Ticketmaster thought I should know. I am not sure why. A YouTube video I clicked on, or some all-seeing/all-listening electronic entity noticed I always turn the volume up on my truck radio whenever “Barracuda” or “Dreamboat Annie” play.

I was intrigued. I clicked on the link to see what seats were available and how much.

Turned out two good ones at $130 per.

I almost got up to get my credit card, but I decided to mull it over until evening. The waiting was difficult because of a memory.

It was in ’79 or ’80. A brown-eyed boy asked a red-haired girl out on a date. One of the two in love – had been for quite some time. The other, not so much.

I got the friendship date. A few hours with her would be worth the cost.

It was, by the way, expensive. Eight dollars a piece on the seats. Probably ten to fill up the tank of the Camaro to drive to Birmingham and back. Another ten for dinner and concessions. All in, somewhere around $36.

You laugh and wish you were around in “the good old days.” But keep in mind that I only had a part-time-after-school-and-Saturday job. Minimum wage was $3.10. I had a solid 12 hours of sweat commitment to that girl. If that ain’t love, love never was.

My memory is that it was a great show. I did not win her heart that evening, but I recall a hug and a little peck on the cheek. Money well spent.

Back to the present day, forty some odd years later. I kept turning that sweet memory over in my mind as I drove down the road, the radio tuned to a “classic rock” station. “Barracuda” came on as if by magic. My mind made up. It had to be fate. I would pull the trigger on the tickets when I got home.

Then fate actually made an appearance. The DJ (what is the correct term for that vocation today, “streaming digital song selector?”) mentioned that Heart was about to launch a tour, and they had appeared on one of the late-night T.V. shows to kick things off. If I missed it, I could catch it on YouTube.

I did. Wow.

That sweet, amazing soprano voice was mostly gone. Her sister’s guitar work was adequate but labored. Frankly, I had heard better covers of the song. They looked and sounded so old. How could that be?

Because they are. So am I. I keep forgetting.

I passed on the tickets. Let Dreamboat Annie’s “little ship of dreams” sail on through Birmingham.

Besides, the investment paid off. I eventually got that Redhead to love me back.

I told you it was money well spent.

creative nonfiction, Humor, Life in Alabama, rural life, southern culture, southern writing

A Good Cup of Coffee

April 18, 2018by rayclifton15 Comments

I made a semi-annual visit to my cardiologist a few days ago. Semi-annual because my family tree has heart-rot, and this fellow has made it his personal challenge that I not die on his watch, at least of any cardio-related illnesses. I sometimes think if I got hit by a truck it would take some of the pressure off him.

The worst part of these exams is the prerequisite blood work. They are “fasting labs,” meaning that I am not supposed to let anything other than water cross my lips after midnight. Doable except for one small detail: they always schedule the blood-letting mid-morning.

I have mentioned here before that I am an early riser. I can skip breakfast, but I absolutely require one thing. Coffee. Hot, black, strong, and now.

I always survive until the appointed time, but let’s just say I am not good company.

Blood-suckers satisfied, I always treat myself. I head for the nearest Waffle House.

I was working on my second cup, waiting for a fried egg sandwich (take that cardiologist), when I glanced at the parking lot. A lady was hobbling toward the door, struggling to manage the trip on crutches. Her knee-high cast looked brand new.

I got up and opened the door for her.

“Oh, thank you so much. I’m really scuffling to get used to these things.”

I told her it was no problem at all. Glad to help.

I know a little about navigating with crutches. Surgeries on both feet and a knee. My first go-round was interrupted when I fell down some stairs. Broke my right wrist and my left elbow. The surgeon said, “you are not supposed to go down stairs on crutches.”

Thanks Doc., I kind of figured that out.

I helped the lady get seated at a booth and went back to my coffee.

When I finished my third cup and sandwich, I went to the front to settle-up.

“It’s been taken care of, sir.”

It didn’t register. I just stood there. I think I even offered the money again.

“No, your bill has already been paid.”

Dumbfounded, I was nearly outside before it registered.

“You didn’t need to do that ma’am.”

“My pleasure. Now you have a blessed day.”

I did have a blessed day, mostly from a renewed faith that there are still some very nice folks hobbling along in an increasingly self-centered, broken society.

They say that coffee isn’t good for you.

I think they are wrong. It was good for me.

creative nonfiction, Humor, Life in Alabama, rural life, southern culture, southern writing, writing

The Narrow Gate

April 15, 2018by rayclifton11 Comments

I have driven past the church hundreds of times. Perched on top of a little open spot in the woods, it hardly merits a glance, unless of course you like to look at old wood-framed country churches.

I do.

Today is a Saturday, and I’m in no hurry to get back to a never-ending series of projects at the homestead. The roof is leaking again. A rotting facia board needs to be replaced. Bare ground where holly and yaupon have been ripped out of the front flower bed, awaiting azaleas and camellias that haven’t even left the nursery. Seems like a fine time to stop and give this church a more thoughtful consideration.

It is well-kept. Not a blemish to be found. Not even any peeling paint. I have stopped to look at a lot of these old structures in my travels across Alabama, and this one may be the best-maintained I have ever seen.

A sign out front tells a story. Back in 1905, a group of nine Presbyterian pilgrims left a brush arbor to build a sturdier place of worship and a cemetery on this site.

I have driven by here on Sunday before. Nine members look about right. Maybe three cars and a couple of old pickup trucks in the parking lot. If Preacher Calvin was correct, it would seem the Good Lord hasn’t done a whole lot of “choosing” in this spot over the last 113 years or so.

I walk around back to the cemetery. Like the building, it is neat as a pin.

I am captivated by the two columns at the entrance, which the sign indicates were added in 1930. Tallapoosa field-stone, probably gathered from a congregant’s field not too far down the road. Angels carved from Sylacauga marble, the quarry a day’s wagon trip if the mules had a pleasant disposition and momma didn’t dawdle among the sundries at the dry goods store.

I step for a closer examination. I am transfixed.

The finger is pointed at me, left hand beckoning through the gate to the markers beyond.

“Come on in traveler. There’s a quiet spot right over there. Enter and join the community of the dead, those who lie in wait of ‘The Shout and the voice of the archangel.'”*

I consider the proposition for a moment, then I’m back in my truck, boot heavy on the accelerator.

All of a sudden those chores at the homestead aren’t looking too bad.

*From The Holy Bible, 1 Thessalonians 4:16.

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, rural life, southern culture, southern writing

The Time in Between

April 12, 2018April 12, 2018by rayclifton10 Comments

sunrise 2

Sunrise at the homestead. The best time of day.

I walk out on the back porch, as I do every day. I am a daybreak riser. My two bulldogs are not. I get no acknowledgment. Nary a lifted head.

I reckon some are just not morning people — or morning dogs, as it were.

I like to pause for a minute, even if it is just a minute. A lot of years went by since I could appreciate this. No man-made noise. A turkey gobbles on the next ridge. On a really good day, I can hear two more respond to his challenge.

I can’t stay long. Miles to travel. Things to get done. Bills to be paid.

sunset

Sunset at the homestead. The best time of day.

I walk to the back porch. The bulldogs show their better nature. The oldest moans like a broken-hearted man. The other just smiles. They know intuitively that they are going to get a jaunt down to the creek or get fed. It is a win-win, either way.

This has been a long time coming. Dark soon. No man-made noise. A coyote howls on the next ridge. On a really good night, I can hear two more respond to the challenge.

As I write this, it occurs to me that it is the space in between these two times that kill a man. They call it “stress” today. In the olden times they just called it “livin’.”

A friend recently asked me if I had a “bucket list.” I said I didn’t. She looked at me as if I had shot her horse right out from under her.

Well why not for goodness sake?

Just don’t. Never given it that much thought.

I think, though, that I may change my mind.

I think I would like to see the best time of day as many times as I can.