The ball streaked high into the night sky through the sultry air over Houston, Texas. Like a rocket soaring toward some distant planet, it made its way higher and higher, up and up, until it appeared as a mere speck in the heavens, like a star shining alone, and the audience gazed up in amazement and wonder. It hung for a moment as though suspended in deep space before hurtling back toward earth, toward its intended target – Section 224, Row 1, Seat 16.
The crowd oohed and aahed as the sphere accelerated rapidly, charging back through the earth’s atmosphere, sparks flying behind it comet-like, its tiny little heat-resistant tiles glowing in the dark. Its ominous re-entry kindled fear in the people below and some ran for the exits while others stood in dazed disbelief, like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
But the Man in Seat 16 stood steady, solitary, staring intently and without fear at the approaching Death Star. He stood behind the thigh-high rail and quickly assessed the situation. On one side of the rail was safety and Life – on the other, peril and Death. He stretched his body across the span, sacrificing Life and Limb, merely for his Love of the Game. Men, women and children watched first the ball and then the Man, back and forth, back and forth, like a vertical tennis match, with their futures hanging in the balance. They gasped and held their collective breath in the final moment.
The Man in Seat 16 reached out with his well-oiled, shiny black leather, Ken Griffey, Jr. model glove, and time stood still. Everything moved as though in slow motion to him. There was no crowd, no sound, no movement – just him and the ball. His concentration was extreme, his confidence high. In the nanosecond before splashdown, everything returned to normal and It happened. The satisfying sound of leather on leather – PLAAP – reverberated throughout the stadium. There was just a moment of stillness and utter quiet and then the crowd erupted in roars of delight and relief. Smiles abounded, high-fives were shared, and tears were shed. Those who had sought shelter returned sheepishly to their seats and were welcomed as everyone rejoiced together.
As the Man in Seat 16 left the stadium, little boys looked up at him in wide-eyed idol-worship, men watched in envy, and women brushed up against him, furtively leaving little strips of paper and ticket stubs in his belt bearing phone numbers and promises. The Catch would be replayed over and over on ESPN highlight reels and people would discuss The Catch until the end of time. Literally millions of individuals would insist, “I was there!”
Reporters sought him out, and sports and Hollywood agents searched high and low, but no one knew his name. They didn’t know where he came from or where he went. He appeared from nowhere like a shadow, a specter, and disappeared in the same way – having no beginning and no end. The Catch became a watershed moment in History. There had never been one like it. There would not be another. The elusive figure who inspired the World would be known henceforth only as…
… The Man in Seat 16.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Name of the Brave
Mountains of purple and orange were visible far across the flat brushland when the Indian boy emerged quietly from his teepee. It was essential that he not wake his father and mother and especially his little brother, who would most certainly want to tag along on this, the most important journey of his life. He wanted to slip away alone and unnoticed from his village.
The air was cool and crisp and the village was peaceful, quite a contrast to the events of the preceding evening. Demanding ritual and wild celebration had marked this boy’s thirteenth summer. Tribal law dictated that in order to become a ‘brave’, to pass from boyhood to manhood, one must complete a series of tests administered by other members of the tribe.
It was with a great deal of pride that the boy walked stealthily through the slumbering village. He had passed all of the tests including the final gauntlet run where everyone in the village had lined up in two long parallel rows; men, women, and children, each armed with sticks, rawhide whips, and thorned branches. Approximately one hundred paces separated the beginning and the end of the gauntlet. The boy had to run the distance without stopping. Failure would result in humiliation and a life of working with the squaws and never hunting or fighting with the other braves.
Although bloodied and beaten, the boy did not – could not – be driven to that humiliation. He took all of the blows designed with every intention of stopping him and fell to the ground only after passing the last of the men in the gauntlet. (The strongest braves were situated last in the gauntlet line.) With blood spilling from every part of his body and welts rising where blood was absent, the boy stood to his feet and raised both fists skyward and through swollen lips gave the exultant shout of a triumphant warrior!
Women picked up the boy and carried him to the “Big Running Water” where he was scrubbed from head to foot to signify a washing away of the old nature, and then applied the bright red, black, and white war paint. He had never been prouder. The women then retired with the children to their teepees and, for the first time, the boy was allowed to sit among the men of the tribe and smoke from the ancestral pipe passed from man to man as it had been passed from generation to generation.
The boy wrapped his newest possession, a band of deer hide with a copper clasp and a long gray eagle feather, around his long, raven-colored hair and set out on the final leg of his adventure. He would walk a day’s trek toward the “Great Mountain” where the ‘sun goes to rest’ and receive the “Name of the Brave” from the Great Spirit.
Until then, he had been known only as ‘boy’ just as every other boy in the tribe, but having passed the tests devised by his tribe, he would now be given an Indian warrior’s name along with a mission and a blessing to be given by the Great Spirit. Simply, he was told to remain in the wilderness until the Great Spirit provided his new name, and that he would know when the Spirit came to him. With some trepidation but a great Faith, the boy stepped into the unknown.
The day’s travel was long, hot, and uneventful and the boy felt very lonely. He saw no living creature, only much flat land and scrub brush. Toward the end of the day, he was tired and hungry and longed to return to his family and especially to the meal that he knew his mother was preparing. But he also knew that he must return only after having seen or heard a sign from the Spirit. The boy’s father was the Chief of his people and he would know if the boy returned prematurely, and the rewards that had been so courageously obtained would be taken away.
When the light of day began to creep away behind the Great Mountain, the boy chose a protected spot in the foothills near a high rocky outcropping. In the shelter of these gray rocks, he built a small fire with the dry brush and the flint rocks he always carried in a deerskin pouch. Soon he lay down near the fire and slept.
He awoke to the sounds of deep, rolling thunder and found that the clear blue sky of yesterday’s journey had been replaced with thick, dark gray – almost black – ominous clouds. He could not see the Great Mountain, but in that direction, flashes of bright yellow “Arrows of Fire” frequently connected Land and Sky.
The fire that he had built the night before was now only dark, smoky ashes and as he turned toward the high rocks at his back, his eyes and ears together warned him of immediate peril. He was frozen with terror at the sight and sound of a coiled rattlesnake on the rocks only a few feet from him about chest high and ready to strike!
His heart pounded and he wanted to run but he was mesmerized by the snake’s rattle, its slowly weaving head and flickering forked tongue, and he was unable to move. The boy knew the snake’s bite was deadly. He had seen a horse die within minutes after a snake attack. No longer did he remember the events of the days past or his family or his pride in his accomplishments. All he sensed now was an instinctive fear of Death.
He thought of what his father had taught him about Death – that every brave must face the “Bringer of Death”, and one’s position in the “Life After” would be determined by how he responded to Death. Some day the Great Spirit would cover all the land with the Great Net and those who were deemed worthy would be taken up in the net to a place of Happiness and Beauty.
But these thoughts did not stop the boy’s fear or the snake’s anger. It happened in only a moment, only a twinkling of an eye, but the boy saw it all slowly, as though it occurred over many minutes. The snake struck, its long muscular body reaching toward the boy, its fangs bared toward the boy’s heart. And in that same moment an “Arrow of Fire” from the Great Spirit pierced the deadly rattler and the force of the powerful bolt from the sky knocked the boy down and he was overcome by darkness.
When he awakened this time, the skies were clearing and his first vision was of the Great Mountain’s face reflecting the rays of the sun and he felt a cool breeze upon his skin. He remembered the snake as though it had been a “Dream of Evil” but a burning sensation on his chest reminded him that the Great Spirit had visited. He looked down to the burning and saw a mark seared into his skin in the likeness of a striking snake and an “Arrow of Fire”.
The boy rose to return to his People. He would someday replace his father as the tribal chief of a great people and become a famed warrior and a compassionate but powerful leader of the braves. The name given by the blessing of the Great Spirit in the Indian language translated as “Arrow of Fire Which Brings Death to the Great Snake”, but when the White Man arrived many moons later, he would spread the name of the Great Indian Chief with the tattoo emblazoned on his chest. In the White Man’s tongue, the brave would become a legend called –
LIGHTNING SNAKE!!!
The air was cool and crisp and the village was peaceful, quite a contrast to the events of the preceding evening. Demanding ritual and wild celebration had marked this boy’s thirteenth summer. Tribal law dictated that in order to become a ‘brave’, to pass from boyhood to manhood, one must complete a series of tests administered by other members of the tribe.
It was with a great deal of pride that the boy walked stealthily through the slumbering village. He had passed all of the tests including the final gauntlet run where everyone in the village had lined up in two long parallel rows; men, women, and children, each armed with sticks, rawhide whips, and thorned branches. Approximately one hundred paces separated the beginning and the end of the gauntlet. The boy had to run the distance without stopping. Failure would result in humiliation and a life of working with the squaws and never hunting or fighting with the other braves.
Although bloodied and beaten, the boy did not – could not – be driven to that humiliation. He took all of the blows designed with every intention of stopping him and fell to the ground only after passing the last of the men in the gauntlet. (The strongest braves were situated last in the gauntlet line.) With blood spilling from every part of his body and welts rising where blood was absent, the boy stood to his feet and raised both fists skyward and through swollen lips gave the exultant shout of a triumphant warrior!
Women picked up the boy and carried him to the “Big Running Water” where he was scrubbed from head to foot to signify a washing away of the old nature, and then applied the bright red, black, and white war paint. He had never been prouder. The women then retired with the children to their teepees and, for the first time, the boy was allowed to sit among the men of the tribe and smoke from the ancestral pipe passed from man to man as it had been passed from generation to generation.
The boy wrapped his newest possession, a band of deer hide with a copper clasp and a long gray eagle feather, around his long, raven-colored hair and set out on the final leg of his adventure. He would walk a day’s trek toward the “Great Mountain” where the ‘sun goes to rest’ and receive the “Name of the Brave” from the Great Spirit.
Until then, he had been known only as ‘boy’ just as every other boy in the tribe, but having passed the tests devised by his tribe, he would now be given an Indian warrior’s name along with a mission and a blessing to be given by the Great Spirit. Simply, he was told to remain in the wilderness until the Great Spirit provided his new name, and that he would know when the Spirit came to him. With some trepidation but a great Faith, the boy stepped into the unknown.
The day’s travel was long, hot, and uneventful and the boy felt very lonely. He saw no living creature, only much flat land and scrub brush. Toward the end of the day, he was tired and hungry and longed to return to his family and especially to the meal that he knew his mother was preparing. But he also knew that he must return only after having seen or heard a sign from the Spirit. The boy’s father was the Chief of his people and he would know if the boy returned prematurely, and the rewards that had been so courageously obtained would be taken away.
When the light of day began to creep away behind the Great Mountain, the boy chose a protected spot in the foothills near a high rocky outcropping. In the shelter of these gray rocks, he built a small fire with the dry brush and the flint rocks he always carried in a deerskin pouch. Soon he lay down near the fire and slept.
He awoke to the sounds of deep, rolling thunder and found that the clear blue sky of yesterday’s journey had been replaced with thick, dark gray – almost black – ominous clouds. He could not see the Great Mountain, but in that direction, flashes of bright yellow “Arrows of Fire” frequently connected Land and Sky.
The fire that he had built the night before was now only dark, smoky ashes and as he turned toward the high rocks at his back, his eyes and ears together warned him of immediate peril. He was frozen with terror at the sight and sound of a coiled rattlesnake on the rocks only a few feet from him about chest high and ready to strike!
His heart pounded and he wanted to run but he was mesmerized by the snake’s rattle, its slowly weaving head and flickering forked tongue, and he was unable to move. The boy knew the snake’s bite was deadly. He had seen a horse die within minutes after a snake attack. No longer did he remember the events of the days past or his family or his pride in his accomplishments. All he sensed now was an instinctive fear of Death.
He thought of what his father had taught him about Death – that every brave must face the “Bringer of Death”, and one’s position in the “Life After” would be determined by how he responded to Death. Some day the Great Spirit would cover all the land with the Great Net and those who were deemed worthy would be taken up in the net to a place of Happiness and Beauty.
But these thoughts did not stop the boy’s fear or the snake’s anger. It happened in only a moment, only a twinkling of an eye, but the boy saw it all slowly, as though it occurred over many minutes. The snake struck, its long muscular body reaching toward the boy, its fangs bared toward the boy’s heart. And in that same moment an “Arrow of Fire” from the Great Spirit pierced the deadly rattler and the force of the powerful bolt from the sky knocked the boy down and he was overcome by darkness.
When he awakened this time, the skies were clearing and his first vision was of the Great Mountain’s face reflecting the rays of the sun and he felt a cool breeze upon his skin. He remembered the snake as though it had been a “Dream of Evil” but a burning sensation on his chest reminded him that the Great Spirit had visited. He looked down to the burning and saw a mark seared into his skin in the likeness of a striking snake and an “Arrow of Fire”.
The boy rose to return to his People. He would someday replace his father as the tribal chief of a great people and become a famed warrior and a compassionate but powerful leader of the braves. The name given by the blessing of the Great Spirit in the Indian language translated as “Arrow of Fire Which Brings Death to the Great Snake”, but when the White Man arrived many moons later, he would spread the name of the Great Indian Chief with the tattoo emblazoned on his chest. In the White Man’s tongue, the brave would become a legend called –
LIGHTNING SNAKE!!!
Lady In Red
I dream in black and white and shades of gray.
Wandering aimlessly, searching for something, I
Often allow my dreams to slip away -
Wherever it is dreams go to die.
Dreaming in black and white and shades of gray,
I seldom find the object of my desire.
Did I miss my goal turning a wrong way?
Walking and wanting, seeking lower and higher.
I dream in black and white and shades of gray.
A feeling washes over me, once lost, now found.
No danger I sense - no dread nor dismay,
And in my dream, slowly I turn around.
No longer black and white and shades of gray,
But a woman of beauty in scarlet red
Looking past me or through me, not turning away.
Is she the goal of this life I’ve led?
Her visage eludes me, but I search every day
Through nameless faces, in crowded halls
Of black and white and shades of gray.
She hides from me, but my name she calls.
A vision of black and white and shades of gray,
A blouse of red on perfect skin.
I touch her and then I watch her fade.
Tears fill my eyes as I wake again.
Words come with effort, but what do I say?
The smile on her lips is so hard to read
In black and white and shades of gray -
First pushing, then pulling, inviting my need.
Why can’t I have her? What takes her away?
Why can’t I stay with her in my dreams
Of black and white and shades of gray?
Reality pries me away it seems.
Each dream of black and white and shades of gray
Brings her nearer, closer, dearer to me.
My time is short. It is slipping away.
Forever without her - forever unfree.
Just out of my reach, my Hell to pay
Not sleeping, but waking - my personal dread.
I dream in black and white and shades of gray
And my heart seeks forever the Lady in Red.
Wandering aimlessly, searching for something, I
Often allow my dreams to slip away -
Wherever it is dreams go to die.
Dreaming in black and white and shades of gray,
I seldom find the object of my desire.
Did I miss my goal turning a wrong way?
Walking and wanting, seeking lower and higher.
I dream in black and white and shades of gray.
A feeling washes over me, once lost, now found.
No danger I sense - no dread nor dismay,
And in my dream, slowly I turn around.
No longer black and white and shades of gray,
But a woman of beauty in scarlet red
Looking past me or through me, not turning away.
Is she the goal of this life I’ve led?
Her visage eludes me, but I search every day
Through nameless faces, in crowded halls
Of black and white and shades of gray.
She hides from me, but my name she calls.
A vision of black and white and shades of gray,
A blouse of red on perfect skin.
I touch her and then I watch her fade.
Tears fill my eyes as I wake again.
Words come with effort, but what do I say?
The smile on her lips is so hard to read
In black and white and shades of gray -
First pushing, then pulling, inviting my need.
Why can’t I have her? What takes her away?
Why can’t I stay with her in my dreams
Of black and white and shades of gray?
Reality pries me away it seems.
Each dream of black and white and shades of gray
Brings her nearer, closer, dearer to me.
My time is short. It is slipping away.
Forever without her - forever unfree.
Just out of my reach, my Hell to pay
Not sleeping, but waking - my personal dread.
I dream in black and white and shades of gray
And my heart seeks forever the Lady in Red.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Here Without You
I walked across the parking lot of the Super 8 Motel in Jasper, Alabama, early on a Saturday morning in December on my way to breakfast at the Omelet Shoppe. The lady at the motel told me that the Waffle House was better, but the Omelet Shoppe was closer, and I didn’t want to get in the car and drive. It was a very cool morning, but I enjoyed the short walk.
I sat at the counter a couple of seats down from a big man smoking a cigarette. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a “No Smoking” section in this particular restaurant. It didn’t take long to realize that I was in Small Town, Anywhere. Except for me, everyone seemed to know everyone else. That was Bill sitting beside me smoking and Pat was cooking and Cindy was the waitress. Mike was off today, Paul had to leave early, and David was the delivery man.
One of the customers played “Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down – one of my current favorites.
I sat at the counter a couple of seats down from a big man smoking a cigarette. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a “No Smoking” section in this particular restaurant. It didn’t take long to realize that I was in Small Town, Anywhere. Except for me, everyone seemed to know everyone else. That was Bill sitting beside me smoking and Pat was cooking and Cindy was the waitress. Mike was off today, Paul had to leave early, and David was the delivery man.
One of the customers played “Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down – one of my current favorites.
A hundred days had made me older
Since the last time that I saw your pretty face.
A thousand lights had made me colder
And I don’t think I can look at this the same.
But all the miles had separated
They disappeared now when I’m dreaming of your face.
Except for the smoke and the game machines, it was a perfect place to eat breakfast. The people were friendly and the food was good. I know that everyone knew that I didn’t belong there, but they made me feel welcome just the same. Without really thinking, I threw my American Express card on the counter when Cindy left the ticket. She came back to get it, hesitated for a second, (Uncle Wayne says, “Like a calf looking at a new gate.) then picked it up. Pat, the cook, Cindy and another lady who worked there all gathered around the credit card machine to watch. Apparently, that was a rare occurrence, but they managed it without any trouble.
I was in no particular hurry, which is the way you have to be in Alabama. I intentionally left my cell phone home and it felt good to be foot loose and fancy free, though only for a short weekend. I was here for the 80th birthday party for Aunt Evelyn, my Dad’s oldest (surviving) sister. It felt good to have a reason to go back to Alabama that wasn’t a funeral. When I was here last, Uncle Larry asked me when I was coming back. I told him probably for the next funeral. He said, “Well, I hope I get to see you.”
I drove to Larry and Deb’s house. I was the first to arrive there, but others arrived and we took three cars to the birthday party. I heard that there were over seventy people there and of course, over half of them I didn’t know. I never get to see everyone I want to see, and I never get to spend as much time as I want to with those who I DO get to see, but I am really glad I went. I got several more “You’re Lester’s boy, aren’t you?” and that is always nice. I don’t know how anyone could ever get higher than “Lester’s boy”.
Some of Evelyn’s family – even some of her own kids – didn’t come to the party due to a long-running family feud. I didn’t know about it until this trip. I thought it was kind of funny, but mostly kind of sad. What a waste. Life here is way too short to spend it fighting with your own family. I even feel like I wasted a lot of years – not because I was fighting with family – but just because I didn’t visit as often as I should have.
Saturday afternoon and evening and Sunday morning at Larry and Deb’s was wonderful – good food and visiting with family. Though it was really cold outside, a couple of times I went out with Larry and sat on the porch swing, and once I went out by myself. The fresh air felt good and it’s easier from the porch swing to realize why I’m there and how good it is to be there – how fortunate I am to be able to come, and how nice it is when other family members make a special effort to be there.
I always enjoy sitting around listening to stories about the family. Most of them are probably not even true, but that doesn’t matter. The stories always make me feel like I wish I had lived here in Alabama and been more a part of those stories. I’ve gotten to know a few of my cousins better in the last couple of years, but I know I’ll probably die not having gotten to know them as well as I would like to.
Of course, once again, the birthday party was just an excuse to get me to Alabama. I can’t even describe how good I feel when I am there, and how difficult it is to leave. Have you ever had a really, really wonderful dream, but then you woke up and realized you had only been dreaming, and now you have to get up, face the real world and go to work - that “Oh, crap” feeling? That’s how I felt when it was time to leave.
I got some good hugs from the family and left a little early so I could drive around a little. I drove to Beaverton and took some pictures of the old home place. The old house that my grandparents lived in is gone now except for a whole lot of memories that will live as long as I do. I got a picture of the well in “downtown” Beaverton. I drove back to Birmingham pretty slowly, stopping at a place or two and taking some more pictures. I stopped for a late lunch at a little Mexican food place in Jasper that was warm and “Christmasy”.
I was at the airport early, but that was ok, too, because I needed time to reflect. I usually don’t waste my time in an airport. I always have a book to read or something else to do. I had all of that with me this time, but I just sat at the gate in the airport, watching people a little – always seeing someone who “reminds me of someone else” – but mostly just thinking and smiling inside and feeling that warm Alabama feeling that I wish everyone could experience and feel like I do.
I’m here without you baby, but you’re still on my lonely mind.
I think about you baby, and I dream about you all the time.
I’m here without you baby, but you’re still with me in my dreams,
And tonight
it’s only you and me.
The Highway to Jasper
Driving alone late one night on a dark, lonely stretch of Alabama highway near Jasper, I came upon a car by the side of the road with its emergency lights flashing, providing the only light on the road, save for the sky full of stars and the quarter moon. My first thought was that the car might be abandoned. My second thought was that it might be dangerous to stop, but something told me that I should not drive on by.
I pulled over to the shoulder and tentatively stopped behind the car with my bright lights on. The silhouette of a woman’s head became visible. I saw her look into her rear view mirror. I also saw that the left rear tire was flat. Maybe this is an elderly woman who can’t change the tire. Surely she has a cell phone. Everyone has a cell phone. She has probably already called for help. But again, something pulled me, tugging just as surely as anything I have ever felt.
I sensed some danger as I got out of my car and approached the woman’s window, but it was soon dispelled. When I got close enough to see in the glare of my own headlights, I was shocked to see a beautiful young woman of about thirty years. She looked at me, rolled her window down just a couple of inches, and smiled the most beautiful dimpled smile I have ever seen. Her eyes sparkled, seeming to dance with laughter. It seemed so out of character for the situation. She should have been worried or frightened or both, but she certainly didn’t seem to be.
I asked, “Do you need some help?” She said that she did. I offered to change the tire, and told her she would have to unlock the trunk. She reached under her seat and the trunk lid bounced up. I found all of the proper tools and a new spare tire. It appeared that none of it had ever been used. I figured it was a new car or maybe a rental. I changed the tire without incident. She stayed in the car, which didn’t surprise me. Though she acted totally at ease, she must have realized the danger on this long stretch of highway in the late evening.
I finished and replaced the tools and the flat tire in her trunk and closed the lid, signifying the completion of the job. I went back to the window and saw the same smile and beautiful eyes. Her blonde hair was pulled up on her head and her makeup was perfect. I had this sudden curiosity about where she had been or where she was going. I wondered if she was a long way from home maybe, and if that’s why she couldn’t call for help.
Of course, she thanked me profusely and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t have any money with me or I would offer to pay you.” Her voice was soft and sweet and the accent was Deep South, like one hears so often in that part of Alabama. I said, “No, no, no. I would never take your money. I’m just glad I happened by and could help you.” She said that she certainly was glad, too. She said, “I don’t know how long I would have had to stay here. I had no idea how to change a flat tire or where the next town was.” I explained to her how she should have the flat fixed as soon as she could and we exchanged goodbyes.
I walked back to my car and paused, waiting for her to drive away. Her car was running and the lights were on, but it didn’t move. I had watched her pull the seat belt around her and snap it in, but I could see her now and she wasn’t moving. I waited. I saw her glance in her side view mirror. I remember the rest of this like a slow motion film. I saw the seat belt come off. Her door opened and she stepped out and walked back toward me. She was the most perfect physical specimen of a woman I had ever seen. She wore a short, black skirt and sandals with a white short-sleeved blouse. Her skin was well-tanned and her legs were perfectly shaped – incredible – gorgeous – sexy.
The smile was still there but only in her eyes. She appeared to have a purpose. She walked with confidence and assurance and stopped only inches from me, looking up into my questioning eyes. I’m sure my eyes were asking, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” She didn’t say a word. She stood barely on her tiptoes and kissed me, softly and tenderly at first. Her arms wrapped around my neck and my arms instinctively encircled her waist. I felt the skin of her lower back as her blouse rose just above the skirt’s edge.
The kiss lingered and I fell into it. It was the most amazing kiss. I felt so much more than just her lips, more than just physical touch. I felt her soul, her character, her personality, her entire being. I could feel warmth around her, all over her, and it consumed me. I felt as though I was falling. The blood and oxygen left my head for parts of my body where it was more desperately needed. I felt weak and faint, but she held me up with her lips.
I don’t know how long we held the kiss. I know I did not want it to end. It became hungrier and our tongues reached for one another, trading passion and emotion. Her hands pulled my face tightly against hers and my arms pulled her body to mine, trying with all of my strength to weld them into one body. I opened my eyes to find her staring deeply into my soul, but yet, there was still a hint of laughter and playfulness there. She enjoyed giving herself to me.
How did it end? I don’t remember. Without a word, she was suddenly gone and I found myself standing there alone on that highway, not another car in sight, not another human being anywhere to be seen. I stood for a long time, my heart still beating in my chest, pounding its longing for the woman who had disappeared. I knew I would never see her again. I wondered if she had been an angel and, if so, what was her purpose? Why me? I had never experienced a woman like her. There were things about her and about this night that I would never be able to understand nor explain.
Today, I still look for her everywhere I go. Sometimes I think I get glimpses of her. Blonde hair always turns my head now. I search for her shape and for those legs. The thought of that night always brings the same warmth to my heart and smile to my lips, but somehow I know that it was only one night. The night was meant to be. I don’t know why and I don’t think I will ever know. All I know is that my life was changed that night on a highway somewhere near Jasper, Alabama.
I pulled over to the shoulder and tentatively stopped behind the car with my bright lights on. The silhouette of a woman’s head became visible. I saw her look into her rear view mirror. I also saw that the left rear tire was flat. Maybe this is an elderly woman who can’t change the tire. Surely she has a cell phone. Everyone has a cell phone. She has probably already called for help. But again, something pulled me, tugging just as surely as anything I have ever felt.
I sensed some danger as I got out of my car and approached the woman’s window, but it was soon dispelled. When I got close enough to see in the glare of my own headlights, I was shocked to see a beautiful young woman of about thirty years. She looked at me, rolled her window down just a couple of inches, and smiled the most beautiful dimpled smile I have ever seen. Her eyes sparkled, seeming to dance with laughter. It seemed so out of character for the situation. She should have been worried or frightened or both, but she certainly didn’t seem to be.
I asked, “Do you need some help?” She said that she did. I offered to change the tire, and told her she would have to unlock the trunk. She reached under her seat and the trunk lid bounced up. I found all of the proper tools and a new spare tire. It appeared that none of it had ever been used. I figured it was a new car or maybe a rental. I changed the tire without incident. She stayed in the car, which didn’t surprise me. Though she acted totally at ease, she must have realized the danger on this long stretch of highway in the late evening.
I finished and replaced the tools and the flat tire in her trunk and closed the lid, signifying the completion of the job. I went back to the window and saw the same smile and beautiful eyes. Her blonde hair was pulled up on her head and her makeup was perfect. I had this sudden curiosity about where she had been or where she was going. I wondered if she was a long way from home maybe, and if that’s why she couldn’t call for help.
Of course, she thanked me profusely and said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t have any money with me or I would offer to pay you.” Her voice was soft and sweet and the accent was Deep South, like one hears so often in that part of Alabama. I said, “No, no, no. I would never take your money. I’m just glad I happened by and could help you.” She said that she certainly was glad, too. She said, “I don’t know how long I would have had to stay here. I had no idea how to change a flat tire or where the next town was.” I explained to her how she should have the flat fixed as soon as she could and we exchanged goodbyes.
I walked back to my car and paused, waiting for her to drive away. Her car was running and the lights were on, but it didn’t move. I had watched her pull the seat belt around her and snap it in, but I could see her now and she wasn’t moving. I waited. I saw her glance in her side view mirror. I remember the rest of this like a slow motion film. I saw the seat belt come off. Her door opened and she stepped out and walked back toward me. She was the most perfect physical specimen of a woman I had ever seen. She wore a short, black skirt and sandals with a white short-sleeved blouse. Her skin was well-tanned and her legs were perfectly shaped – incredible – gorgeous – sexy.
The smile was still there but only in her eyes. She appeared to have a purpose. She walked with confidence and assurance and stopped only inches from me, looking up into my questioning eyes. I’m sure my eyes were asking, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” She didn’t say a word. She stood barely on her tiptoes and kissed me, softly and tenderly at first. Her arms wrapped around my neck and my arms instinctively encircled her waist. I felt the skin of her lower back as her blouse rose just above the skirt’s edge.
The kiss lingered and I fell into it. It was the most amazing kiss. I felt so much more than just her lips, more than just physical touch. I felt her soul, her character, her personality, her entire being. I could feel warmth around her, all over her, and it consumed me. I felt as though I was falling. The blood and oxygen left my head for parts of my body where it was more desperately needed. I felt weak and faint, but she held me up with her lips.
I don’t know how long we held the kiss. I know I did not want it to end. It became hungrier and our tongues reached for one another, trading passion and emotion. Her hands pulled my face tightly against hers and my arms pulled her body to mine, trying with all of my strength to weld them into one body. I opened my eyes to find her staring deeply into my soul, but yet, there was still a hint of laughter and playfulness there. She enjoyed giving herself to me.
How did it end? I don’t remember. Without a word, she was suddenly gone and I found myself standing there alone on that highway, not another car in sight, not another human being anywhere to be seen. I stood for a long time, my heart still beating in my chest, pounding its longing for the woman who had disappeared. I knew I would never see her again. I wondered if she had been an angel and, if so, what was her purpose? Why me? I had never experienced a woman like her. There were things about her and about this night that I would never be able to understand nor explain.
Today, I still look for her everywhere I go. Sometimes I think I get glimpses of her. Blonde hair always turns my head now. I search for her shape and for those legs. The thought of that night always brings the same warmth to my heart and smile to my lips, but somehow I know that it was only one night. The night was meant to be. I don’t know why and I don’t think I will ever know. All I know is that my life was changed that night on a highway somewhere near Jasper, Alabama.
Life is a Peach Nehi
Guy Gilmer owned the General Store in downtown Beaverton, Alabama for a number of years. On our annual visits to Beaverton to see my Dad’s family, we made frequent trips “to town” to visit Guy and his store. Mr. Gilmer always gave me either one of those push-up ice creams or a Peach Nehi. (Dad said, “You can taste the fuzz.”) To this day – over 40 years later – I still associate rural Alabama, my roots, with Peach Nehi. It is harder to come by these days and it comes in plastic bottles now instead of the much better glass bottles, but the taste is pretty much the same. Actually, it can still be had in glass bottles. I found some on the internet, but the vendors are pretty proud of them, and the shipping would actually cost me more than the drinks themselves. I guess they are mostly intended for collectors, but I want them to drink. I don’t think it’s as good if you leave it in the bottle.
So, mostly I just remember Peach Nehis. I don’t get to drink too many of them.
Recently, cousin Kyle called from his truck somewhere near Jasper, Alabama. He informed me that he had stopped in a convenience store and found Peach Nehis, so he bought all they had. (A half dozen bottles or so) He told me he would keep them for me until I could come to get them. When I know that Peach Nehis are waiting, it doesn’t take much to come up with a reason to go to Alabama. Uncle Wayne called and said he was going for Mother’s Day and Decoration Day at the family cemetery at Olive Hill. That was enough for me. I started making plans.
I have always loved going to Alabama and hated leaving after I got there. I often wonder if Alabama is the ideal place to live, but I’ve never lived there so I’m not sure. Maybe because I live so far away and don’t get to visit often, the folks there treat me special when I show up. I like to think that I would be treated the same even if I lived there, but I don’t see how that could be possible. When I visit now, they treat me almost like they like me. I know if I lived there, I would probably ruin that.
Anyway, I bought a plane ticket for me and one for my son, Joel, and we headed to Sweet Home, Alabama. This seemed to be an especially good trip. There were numerous highlights. I am blessed with some of the prettiest cousins in the whole wide world and it is always good to see them. Oh, some of them like me and some of them don’t, but that’s sort of beside the point. Of course, there is always the porch swing that Kyle made on Uncle Larry and Aunt Deb’s front porch and this time I got to combine a couple of the pretty cousins with the porch swing and a Peach Nehi and … well, heaven came down. It doesn’t get any better than that.
I had tried to explain to Joel about how I felt “a sense of family” in Alabama that I had never felt with my Texas relatives, but that kind of thing is difficult – probably impossible – to explain with words. After our short Alabama visit, Joel said that he understood. He said that the Alabama people are real – that they don’t try to hide who they are or what they are. He said, “Everyone I met, I would like to hang out with and get to know them better.” I know the feeling. There never seems to be enough time.
Kyle and I introduced Joel and my niece, Anna Rae, to the mineral water at the well in downtown Beaverton. Anna chose not to partake of the pungent liquid but Joel did. I don’t think he was impressed with the taste too much, but as Kyle explained, “There’s a lot more to the water than the taste.” He was referring to memories that he and I share of our respective childhoods. What is life, after all, without memories?
Stopping to get a drink of water in Beaverton. Walking in the woods and along the railroad track. Sitting on the porch swing swatting flies. Eating watermelon. Wild grapes. Milking cows. Feeding chickens. Cutting firewood. Family gatherings. Funerals. Sharing life. Laughing and crying together. Loving each other.
And every day we make more memories…
Holding a baby while she sleeps; praying that her life will be a happy one. A hug that you both mean. A tender kiss. The music of wind chimes. Pot roast and potatoes. The smell of coffee in the morning. Sweet tea or…
… Peach Nehi.
Jesus announced, “I came so that you might have life and have it abundantly.” Why then don’t we live our lives abundantly? Someone said, “If you live long enough, you die.” We know that this good life we have now is temporary and all too short. Maybe there’s a better life after, and I like to think that is true, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve never seen it nor talked to anyone who has been there. All I know is this life and these people who are my family and friends and these places that I like to visit and these things that I love to do. That’s what I have now. I really can’t complain about the life I’ve had up to this point. I have been very blessed. I am grateful for what I have and for what I’ve experienced and for those who have shared my experiences with me.
I am a man of simple pleasure.
Life is a Peach Nehi.
So, mostly I just remember Peach Nehis. I don’t get to drink too many of them.
Recently, cousin Kyle called from his truck somewhere near Jasper, Alabama. He informed me that he had stopped in a convenience store and found Peach Nehis, so he bought all they had. (A half dozen bottles or so) He told me he would keep them for me until I could come to get them. When I know that Peach Nehis are waiting, it doesn’t take much to come up with a reason to go to Alabama. Uncle Wayne called and said he was going for Mother’s Day and Decoration Day at the family cemetery at Olive Hill. That was enough for me. I started making plans.
I have always loved going to Alabama and hated leaving after I got there. I often wonder if Alabama is the ideal place to live, but I’ve never lived there so I’m not sure. Maybe because I live so far away and don’t get to visit often, the folks there treat me special when I show up. I like to think that I would be treated the same even if I lived there, but I don’t see how that could be possible. When I visit now, they treat me almost like they like me. I know if I lived there, I would probably ruin that.
Anyway, I bought a plane ticket for me and one for my son, Joel, and we headed to Sweet Home, Alabama. This seemed to be an especially good trip. There were numerous highlights. I am blessed with some of the prettiest cousins in the whole wide world and it is always good to see them. Oh, some of them like me and some of them don’t, but that’s sort of beside the point. Of course, there is always the porch swing that Kyle made on Uncle Larry and Aunt Deb’s front porch and this time I got to combine a couple of the pretty cousins with the porch swing and a Peach Nehi and … well, heaven came down. It doesn’t get any better than that.
I had tried to explain to Joel about how I felt “a sense of family” in Alabama that I had never felt with my Texas relatives, but that kind of thing is difficult – probably impossible – to explain with words. After our short Alabama visit, Joel said that he understood. He said that the Alabama people are real – that they don’t try to hide who they are or what they are. He said, “Everyone I met, I would like to hang out with and get to know them better.” I know the feeling. There never seems to be enough time.
Kyle and I introduced Joel and my niece, Anna Rae, to the mineral water at the well in downtown Beaverton. Anna chose not to partake of the pungent liquid but Joel did. I don’t think he was impressed with the taste too much, but as Kyle explained, “There’s a lot more to the water than the taste.” He was referring to memories that he and I share of our respective childhoods. What is life, after all, without memories?
Stopping to get a drink of water in Beaverton. Walking in the woods and along the railroad track. Sitting on the porch swing swatting flies. Eating watermelon. Wild grapes. Milking cows. Feeding chickens. Cutting firewood. Family gatherings. Funerals. Sharing life. Laughing and crying together. Loving each other.
And every day we make more memories…
Holding a baby while she sleeps; praying that her life will be a happy one. A hug that you both mean. A tender kiss. The music of wind chimes. Pot roast and potatoes. The smell of coffee in the morning. Sweet tea or…
… Peach Nehi.
Jesus announced, “I came so that you might have life and have it abundantly.” Why then don’t we live our lives abundantly? Someone said, “If you live long enough, you die.” We know that this good life we have now is temporary and all too short. Maybe there’s a better life after, and I like to think that is true, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve never seen it nor talked to anyone who has been there. All I know is this life and these people who are my family and friends and these places that I like to visit and these things that I love to do. That’s what I have now. I really can’t complain about the life I’ve had up to this point. I have been very blessed. I am grateful for what I have and for what I’ve experienced and for those who have shared my experiences with me.
I am a man of simple pleasure.
Life is a Peach Nehi.
The Porch Swing
I made another trip to Alabama last weekend and attended the wedding of a friend near Huntsville. It was a very quick trip – flying in late on Friday afternoon and out early Sunday afternoon. A lot of the trip was pretty uneventful, though – and I never thought I would EVER be able to say this – I got a haircut at Walmart. Well, ok, it wasn’t exactly one of my life-long goals like catching a foul ball at a major league baseball game, learning to dance like Michael Jackson, and playing the piano like Floyd Cramer, but at least now I can say I did it.
I enjoyed the wedding and the bride is a good friend that I have known and worked with for many years. I cried a little at the wedding. I have been to several weddings over the last few years and I cry at all of them now. I always think about the time – sometime in the not too distant future probably – when my Lauren will be getting married. I don’t think I will ever be able to give her away to anyone for any reason. You should probably come if you can just to see what a basket case her Dad is going to be.
I didn’t stay for the reception after the wedding, because I had somewhere else that I needed to be. I told the bride where I had to go, and she understood completely. I told someone else at the wedding that I was going to stay for the start of the kiss, but I wasn’t going to stay for the end of it. That was pretty close to accurate. I bolted out of there and headed for my rental car and jumped in like one of those cowboys who jumps up on the back of his horse and spurs it on. The little Japanese horse and I flew down the road with a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hiyo…”. Well, nevermind.
Anyway, the bride understood where I needed to go, because she is a native Alabaman – a Southern Belle – and she knew I was going to see family and I didn’t have much time. The drive from Huntsville to Guin was about two and a half hours, so I didn’t get there until 5:30 or so and I knew I was going to have to make the drive back that same evening. I pulled up to Aunt Debbie and Uncle Larry’s house, seeing quite a few other cars there already – family come to visit a spell. I walked across the yard up to the front porch and there it was. The porch swing. That’s where I needed to be.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am a native Texan and one of those totally obnoxious Texans who thinks that his state is the greatest in the Union. I am proud to tell people that I am from Texas. Someone said, “Never ask a man where he is from. If he’s from Texas, he’ll TELL you, and if he’s not, you don’t want to embarrass him.” My favorite bumper sticker states, “You can become an American, but you have to be BORN Texan.” I believe that the Alamo stands on sacred ground and the building there is a shrine to the Spirit of Texas and to the Spirit of the men who, facing insurmountable odds, stood and died there for what they believed in. I believe that Spirit exists in true Texans today – the Spirit that stands fast against its worst fears, faces them head on, and says through gritted teeth, proudly – maybe even arrogantly - “Bring it on.” I believe I have that Spirit.
But if my Spirit lives in Texas, then my heart and soul must live in Alabama. Sometimes I can hear that porch swing calling my name. “Michael Austin”, it says. (And I am ALWAYS Michael Austin to the folks there.) “Michael Austin, it’s time for you to come back.” And I begin to look for excuses to go. No offense intended to the bride – a very good friend – and the wedding was truly beautiful, but it was only an excuse to get to that front porch.
I have had the good fortune to go to a lot of wonderful places in my life. I’ve been from Kennebunkport, Maine to San Diego, California and a lot of places in between. I have felt the cool summer mountain air in the Rockies of Colorado. I’ve been to the Bahamas and in the crystal clear water of Grand Cayman in the Caribbean. I’ve seen the sun set off the western shore of Maui and almost nothing comes closer to perfection than that. But ask me what my favorite place in the whole world is and I’ll tell you it’s a porch swing in Guin, Alabama.
Why is that such a special place? I don’t know that I can explain it. I know it’s because the countryside reminds me of my Dad and the many trips that we made there as I was growing up. The place just has a “feel” to it. You can’t touch it and you can’t describe it, but you can feel it. Maybe I’m the only one who gets it. I don’t know. Sometimes I think I feel things more than most people do. I also know that part of the attraction is the people who are always there when I get there. Those people love me and I love them. They are my Dad’s family and, when he died, he left them to me. I am very proud of that inheritance and hold it as the dearest treasure from my Dad.
I made my way across the yard and onto the porch, going through the usual hugging and greeting. I saw three of Dad’s brothers and one of his sisters there this time – people that I don’t get to see often – usually at funerals, sadly enough. I saw three of Debbie and Larry’s kids – my first cousins – and four of their grandchildren. I was given the seat of honor on the swing and we sat on the porch until dark. From there, we made our way into the kitchen and Debbie offered me food several times. I really wasn’t all that hungry and I was trying to concentrate on visiting, since I knew I had so little time, and on giving the people there my undivided attention. Finally, being the good Southern Mom that she is, Debbie brought me a piece of cake covered in warm chocolate and a cold glass of milk. Man, it was good.
The time, as always, was not enough and I had to leave to go back to Huntsville. It was a long way to come for such a short time to visit, and the road back was long and lonely and I had a hole in my heart, but I would have driven farther for much less time. Sitting among family that I love, talking about everything in general, doing nothing in particular, “just being” in Guin, Alabama, floating on the porch swing….
…. just for a little while….
…. I was home.
I enjoyed the wedding and the bride is a good friend that I have known and worked with for many years. I cried a little at the wedding. I have been to several weddings over the last few years and I cry at all of them now. I always think about the time – sometime in the not too distant future probably – when my Lauren will be getting married. I don’t think I will ever be able to give her away to anyone for any reason. You should probably come if you can just to see what a basket case her Dad is going to be.
I didn’t stay for the reception after the wedding, because I had somewhere else that I needed to be. I told the bride where I had to go, and she understood completely. I told someone else at the wedding that I was going to stay for the start of the kiss, but I wasn’t going to stay for the end of it. That was pretty close to accurate. I bolted out of there and headed for my rental car and jumped in like one of those cowboys who jumps up on the back of his horse and spurs it on. The little Japanese horse and I flew down the road with a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hiyo…”. Well, nevermind.
Anyway, the bride understood where I needed to go, because she is a native Alabaman – a Southern Belle – and she knew I was going to see family and I didn’t have much time. The drive from Huntsville to Guin was about two and a half hours, so I didn’t get there until 5:30 or so and I knew I was going to have to make the drive back that same evening. I pulled up to Aunt Debbie and Uncle Larry’s house, seeing quite a few other cars there already – family come to visit a spell. I walked across the yard up to the front porch and there it was. The porch swing. That’s where I needed to be.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am a native Texan and one of those totally obnoxious Texans who thinks that his state is the greatest in the Union. I am proud to tell people that I am from Texas. Someone said, “Never ask a man where he is from. If he’s from Texas, he’ll TELL you, and if he’s not, you don’t want to embarrass him.” My favorite bumper sticker states, “You can become an American, but you have to be BORN Texan.” I believe that the Alamo stands on sacred ground and the building there is a shrine to the Spirit of Texas and to the Spirit of the men who, facing insurmountable odds, stood and died there for what they believed in. I believe that Spirit exists in true Texans today – the Spirit that stands fast against its worst fears, faces them head on, and says through gritted teeth, proudly – maybe even arrogantly - “Bring it on.” I believe I have that Spirit.
But if my Spirit lives in Texas, then my heart and soul must live in Alabama. Sometimes I can hear that porch swing calling my name. “Michael Austin”, it says. (And I am ALWAYS Michael Austin to the folks there.) “Michael Austin, it’s time for you to come back.” And I begin to look for excuses to go. No offense intended to the bride – a very good friend – and the wedding was truly beautiful, but it was only an excuse to get to that front porch.
I have had the good fortune to go to a lot of wonderful places in my life. I’ve been from Kennebunkport, Maine to San Diego, California and a lot of places in between. I have felt the cool summer mountain air in the Rockies of Colorado. I’ve been to the Bahamas and in the crystal clear water of Grand Cayman in the Caribbean. I’ve seen the sun set off the western shore of Maui and almost nothing comes closer to perfection than that. But ask me what my favorite place in the whole world is and I’ll tell you it’s a porch swing in Guin, Alabama.
Why is that such a special place? I don’t know that I can explain it. I know it’s because the countryside reminds me of my Dad and the many trips that we made there as I was growing up. The place just has a “feel” to it. You can’t touch it and you can’t describe it, but you can feel it. Maybe I’m the only one who gets it. I don’t know. Sometimes I think I feel things more than most people do. I also know that part of the attraction is the people who are always there when I get there. Those people love me and I love them. They are my Dad’s family and, when he died, he left them to me. I am very proud of that inheritance and hold it as the dearest treasure from my Dad.
I made my way across the yard and onto the porch, going through the usual hugging and greeting. I saw three of Dad’s brothers and one of his sisters there this time – people that I don’t get to see often – usually at funerals, sadly enough. I saw three of Debbie and Larry’s kids – my first cousins – and four of their grandchildren. I was given the seat of honor on the swing and we sat on the porch until dark. From there, we made our way into the kitchen and Debbie offered me food several times. I really wasn’t all that hungry and I was trying to concentrate on visiting, since I knew I had so little time, and on giving the people there my undivided attention. Finally, being the good Southern Mom that she is, Debbie brought me a piece of cake covered in warm chocolate and a cold glass of milk. Man, it was good.
The time, as always, was not enough and I had to leave to go back to Huntsville. It was a long way to come for such a short time to visit, and the road back was long and lonely and I had a hole in my heart, but I would have driven farther for much less time. Sitting among family that I love, talking about everything in general, doing nothing in particular, “just being” in Guin, Alabama, floating on the porch swing….
…. just for a little while….
…. I was home.
Sweet Home
Her name was Annie and she was born to hillbilly stock in the hills of northern Alabama. She was raised about as far back in the woods as you could get and still have some semblance of civilization – well, depending upon your definition of civilization. I was a city boy, traveling the roads seeking my fortune as men sometimes do, when I first saw her. I can’t explain the feeling that came over me at that first meeting any more now than I could then. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman I had ever seen or the smartest or even the most interesting.
She was pampered and spoiled by her parents and three older brothers, who treated her like a princess as she grew up--but she didn’t seem to take to the spoiling. She lived in the tiny Alabama town near where she was raised, having passed through the little high school as Miss Everything, with medium grades and not much future to speak of. It was a major event when Annie went off to college in Montgomery, and her years there passed uneventfully – a boyfriend or two, and more Miss Everything.
After graduation, she came home, took a job far beneath her college education and moved into an old house on her family’s property. Move-in day was like a community barn raising. Almost everyone helped make the place livable. No one around there had much money, but paint and curtains from Wal-Mart suited Annie fine. Her cousin built a swing for the big front porch, and Annie seemed especially proud of that.
I began making frequent trips through Alabama, and she taught me how to sit on the porch swing. Maybe that sounds silly, but I found that sitting on a porch swing was a learned skill. At first, I thought too much time was wasted on that porch, just sitting and sometimes talking and sometimes saying little at all, looking out over a green field that sloped down to a line of pine trees with nothing – or maybe everything – beyond. It took a while, several sessions of her training, to understand why we were sitting there and not doing something.
Seldom did I arrive at Annie’s house and find her alone. Often there were cars parked under the big pecan tree in front of the house, and family or friends visiting. At times Annie was in the kitchen cooking, but most often I found her on the swing. She was content to sit and listen, and that is when she seemed the happiest to me – wrapped up in others, talking about a little of this, a little of that. To my mind it was just empty chatter, but Annie always looked as though she was completely enthralled with what was being said. She loved life and she loved people, and I think that is why they loved her so much – because she loved them first.
That lifestyle was strange to me at first and still is to some extent. I never was able to fully suppress my city upbringing or the fast pace at which my heart had learned to beat. In my life, there was too little time to sit and talk and no front porches with slow-moving swings. Maybe that was part of my fascination with Annie -- she was a piece of something I didn’t understand. I looked down my city slicker nose at the Alabama lifestyle for a time and, except for her, I would have driven on through, shaking my head, thinking what a backwoods people and place that was. I could have explained away the lifestyle, but I couldn’t explain Annie.
She was happiness, joy and life all the time. Never once did I see her moody or irritable, and I found that almost unbelievable. There was always at least a partial smile on her face, with a little dimple in her right cheek, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. When her laughter came, it was the most beautiful thing this side of heaven. She was the most genuine person I had ever known.
It was obvious that Annie had me hooked when I began using vacation time to go to Alabama. I would fly into Birmingham and drive up Highway 78 through Jasper with the windows down and Southern rock on the radio, taking in the smells and the feel of Alabama. The fresh breeze blew the city out through the open windows and from my consciousness for a while. After my third trip I began to feel almost as if I was going home. By then, I had really begun to look forward to sitting on the porch, floating on the swing, swatting flies, laughing and talking about relatives and telling ghost stories after dark. It was nothing -- and it was everything.
One Saturday evening in early June, Annie surprised me by saying I could pick her up for church Sunday morning. I tried to wiggle my way out of it by telling her that I had only brought jeans with me, but she laughed and said that most of the men wore jeans or overalls, so I couldn’t use that old excuse. I didn’t really remember the last time I had been in church, but it must have been when I was a little boy. The memory was not pleasant, but since Annie had invited, we went to church. It was much like the rest of Annie’s life - amazing. Those people talked about God as if he was real and, for the first time, I began to understand Annie and to understand Alabama.
Seven months later, we married in that little church. Much of our wedding day is a blur to me now, but a few memories remain perfectly intact like snapshots in my mind. Annie’s Dad cried. I saw him when he first glimpsed Annie as a bride, and the sadness in his face and tears coursing down his cheeks were shocking to me. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.
As they walked down the aisle, my eyes were only for her in a beautiful white dress her mother had made. Her hair was up the way I loved it best – off her shoulders, twisted in a simple knot that highlighted her dimple and eyes. A day that would be special to any other woman – her wedding day – appeared to be no different than any other day in Annie’s life. She was happy, but no more than was common for her. She enjoyed such a complete gathering of family and friends, but not more than when she sat with just one of them, alone together on the swing. Though she was the center of attention, she was still able to make everyone that she encountered feel like the most important person there – Annie’s particular favorite. That is the memory of her that I most treasure.
Including our courtship, I had the pleasure of Annie’s company for a little over four years. When we didn’t have a baby after the first couple of years, we saw a doctor in Birmingham and that’s when they found she had cancer. It was already pretty far along and she lived only another year after that. Just as she had taught me about life, Annie taught me about death. Her demeanor never changed. The disease destroyed her body, but it never touched her spirit. We spent many hours on the swing holding hands and doing what she said she liked to do best – “just be”.
She died two days before Easter, curled up in her favorite quilt. Holding my hand with her head on my shoulder and one bare foot peeking out from under the covers, I felt the life go gently out of her. I don’t know how long I sat there and rocked her and cried.
I left it all behind. Staying in Alabama without Annie was not possible. The commotion of the city drew me, and I returned to the world with which I was most familiar. God, I miss her. I miss her laugh and the sparkle in her eyes and the dimple and the never-ending smile on her lips. I miss sitting on the porch with her, sharing a bowl of homemade peach ice cream and doing nothing -- together.
It all happened over ten years ago and I still have an Annie-shaped hole in my heart. She will be with me forever, and so will Alabama - the people and the life that she loved so well.
Life must go on they say, and mine has. But one thing has kept my wounded heart alive. As I held her with all my strength, trying desperately to cling to the life that I knew was slipping away, she looked at me with those lovely, bright eyes and whispered ever so sweetly, “I’ll see you again soon.” It was the last thing she said to me.
I’m counting on it.
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