My Redacted Life

Next day, a Sunday, would become one of the most memorable in my life. It’s funny how some of the little things in life can do that to you. Perhaps by now, the Redhead and I were becoming a number. My neighbor caught me Sunday morning early coming from the dumpster.

“I guess she found out where you had been,” she said. I didn’t tell her that the flip-flops she wore didn’t match. She stood in her doorway attempting a seductive image and I didn’t want to spoil it for her.

“Yeah,” I said. “I told her I was out of town working.”

She said, “I told her I thought you had reenlisted.” She laughed. “I think she believed me for a while. Got real upset. What y’all got on for today? Church and then a pot luck?”

“Thought we’d ride out and maybe take some photographs,” I said.

“Nudes?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Just looking for something to print the in Daily Tattler,” she said. She closed the screen and faded back inside. I saw her later and she still hadn’t figured out that her shoes didn’t match.

Meanwhile, we, Brenda and I, went for coffee at the Burger Chef. She was casually dressed in jeans and a yellow pullover, the yellow setting off her hair perfectly, I thought. It was mid-May and she was counting the weeks until school started. She said it would be at the end of August and she wasn’t happy about it. Since her thoughts made her grouchy, I sought to change the subject.

“Let’s go for a ride,” I said. “I’ll pack us some wine and stuff and maybe we can find a place for a picnic.”

“A picnic? You mean like on the ground? With all the creepy-crawly things and animal crap?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s eat here and just go for a ride.”

We did. After crossing the Arkansas River, we turned east through North Little Rock and followed Broadway. She pointed out the western store B.F. Smith and Sons, where her father had outfitted her for riding horses. I pointed out Fischer’s Restaurant where the bus carrying Elvis Presley and his fellow recruits had stopped for lunch on their way to Fort Chafee and the United States Army. We noted an old sign, still standing, that had fronted a “Colored Motel,” back in older times.

We enjoyed ourselves. Somehow entertainment is both simpler and sweeter when you are falling in love.

We passed Hill’s Lake and continued toward Lonoke. She pointed out where one would turn to go to her childhood home. “It’s a gravel road or I’d show you,” she said. That was a relief to me. I was still a little apprehensive about things.

Instead, she directed me through the city to the north through the center of the town, which was a pretty place, with massive oaks shading the streets. We passed what appeared to be a public swimming pool, but maybe not. The kids enjoying the pool were all white, while young black kids hung on the tall chain-link fence watching.

When I asked about it, she reddened. “It was a public pool until it appeared they would have to integrate it. Then somebody thought it would be a great idea to sell it to the Optimist Club. It’s a private pool now and let’s, please, not talk about it.”

We didn’t. She directed me like a trained tour guide and soon we were well out of town. Some ten miles or so to the north, she pointed me east onto a narrow state highway. “This is where my mother was raised, she said, pointing south toward Lonoke as we passed small graveled lane. “Down at the end of the lane.” Then, “Turn here.”

She directed me down a well-maintained county road maybe half-a-mile or so before having me pull over to the left and stop before a metal gate. “Daddy rents this place for pasture,” she said, adding, “And he keeps some of his cows here.” She looked to me. “Want to see them?”

What could I say? She bounded from the car, loosened a chain holding the gate, swung it open and motioned me through. Then she closed and chained the gate.

The Farmer's Daughter

She directed me along a barely visible drive past a vacant farmhouse. We then wound around fence rows as she told me that the property belonged to families that had once lived here but had all moved away. “Through that gap,” she said, interrupting the history lesson.

We entered a large open field with a stock pond in its southwestern corner. A small herd of cattle and a pinto pony stood near it. “Get out," she directed. I obeyed. She took my hand and we walked the field, dodging manure piles as she told me details about the raising of cattle. She told how much her father loved it because he didn’t have to share any money gained from it with his family as he did with the row crops.

I had her stand beside a rustic section of fence and took her photograph.

We must have lost track of time. Before we reached the pond, we turned to see a white pickup truck bouncing across the field toward the Porsche. “That’s my daddy,” she said. “He’s going to beat you up for being in his pasture.”

Wasn’t that nice?