She, Hazel, also was reared in what her husband called, “the
hill country,” which meant North Lonoke County, where if one looked hard, one
might find gently rolling land as opposed to the glass-pane-flat cotton,
soybean, and rice fields in the southern extremities. Therefore, no “hillbilly”
jokes. Check box number two.
Also, both of Hazel’s brothers had served in the United
States Navy. Be sure to mention I was a shipmate. Check box number three.
Speaking of military service, Julius, Brenda’s dad had seen
substantial action in Europe during World War Two as a rifleman in the 79th
Infantry Division. Be prepared for some war stories. Check box number four.
Be advised, her dad’s favorite, and only, hobby was hard,
back-breaking physical work, so emphasize my steady employment. Check box number
five.
Don’t kick the obnoxious toy poodle “Frenchy,” no matter how
annoying he became. I think that completed the checklist.
We arrived on time to find Hazel finishing preparing the table
for the meal she had started earlier, before church. One of her best friends,
Edna, had followed them home from church. She sat at the kitchen table and held
a female poodle with a red bow on its head. Frenchy had fled in fear and was hiding
under a couch. That spared us from his antics. I shook hands with Julius and he
directed me to sit.
Right way, I noticed a peculiarity in the way Hazel prepared
meals. She performed one task at a time, not attempting to combine movements or
save motion. Progress was slow. Setting the table required a separate trip across
the kitchen for each utensil placed.
Meanwhile, Julius was telling me that he didn’t know much
about the Navy. He had a brother who had served in it, and he had, of course, sailed
to war on an ocean liner that had been converted to a troop ship. He didn’t
think much of the trip, especially after the ship docked and some “little
fellers from India or somewhere,” who were supposed to care for them, pilfered
their food allocations and then offered to sell them candy bars for a dollar
apiece.
We passed the time pleasantly. I didn’t say much. Didn’t
have to. We were only halfway across France with the 79th when Edna
excused herself and left. She was a nice lady and had told us about how, as a
teenage bride, she had commandeered her much-older husband’s car and took it
for a spin, with unfortunate results.
I’ve spent worse Sunday afternoons. An hour or so after Edna
left, Hazel finished setting the table and we enjoyed a nice meal. Julius kept
us entertained. I learned that the spring plowing had gone well. Farmers needed
a rain. Farmers always needed a rain except for when they didn’t need a rain. A
cousin had borrowed an implement and hadn’t brought it back. Another family
member had borrowed an implement and brought it back damaged. He’d be damned if
he kept loaning his tools. I found out later that he had made that promise every
week for at least 20 years.
Afterwards, we walked around the homeplace. It would astound
one to see the house and farm structures built by this solitary man on this
lonely spot of farmland. There were implements everywhere, mostly used and aged.
The place was neat and cared for, a picture of rural farm life in America. At
that point in time, there was little thought that there might come a day when
one hard working man could no longer support a family through such efforts.
“Brenda used to help me,” he was saying. “She liked it, I
think. Even when she was little, and I would come in for dinner, she would hang
onto my legs and beg me to take her with me when I went back to the field. She
never gave me one minute’s trouble.”
Memories differ, I suppose. I distinctly remembered her claiming
that he told her, more than once, that she had taken “ten years off his life.”
I guessed the truth lay somewhere in between, buried deep
beneath the row crops on, as Faulkner had put it, “that little postage stamp of
native soil.”
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| Will America see their likes again? |
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