Discord

Let’s hope it doesn’t reach separation status. It’s an odd one though. My roommate and I disagreed on a topic (outside my eternal shortcomings) last evening for about the fourth or fifth topic in 47 years. It was silly, but aren’t most disagreements? Just think about the million upon millions of poor folks who have died over which mythology to believe.

Ours was even sillier.

It happened his way. We hardly ever watch sports on TV. We hardly ever watch sports period. As for TV, if it wasn’t for Turner Classic Movies and PBS, I’d probably sell the darned thing.

Anyway, steer me back to the point. She has decided, because of countless in-state adventures with her cousin Phyllis in Houston, and a great-grandfather who didn’t stop fleeing Kentucky until he crossed into the territory, that she is some sort of honorary Texan or such. Hence, we surfed upon the seventh game of this year’s World Series.

Lo and behold. It was between the Houston Astros and some team I had never heard of in my life. We locked on.

Then the trouble started. I noticed that, through TV magic, they now insert a rectangle around the batter’s crotch to show where the baseball goes after it is thrown. (Man, I had to study the structure of that sentence carefully. The apocryphal Dizzy Dean comment about the young couple watching the game kept sliding into my head.) Anyway …

 I was thinking, “Isn’t baseball on TV boring enough without displaying what the umpire is going to do before it happens? Watching and waiting for errors to occur is one of the few enjoyable pastimes left to mere mortals. Why are we suddenly eschewing human frailties? People like me want to know.

I was on the verge of proclaiming my insightfulness when her voice broke the silence. “I really like that little box that shows you what’s a ball and what’s a strike,” she said.

Oh, the horror! The horror!

I’ve learned to keep my opinion to myself over the years. I’ve learned to follow the Galilean’s advice to “agree with thine adversary quickly.” Why seek discord? Why annoy? Why make mountains out of molehills? Why sow rancor? Respect the opinions of others. Harmony is divine. Quarrels provide a feast for the Dark One. Smile. Be agreeable and history will judge you a sage.

“It’s the silliest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” I said.

Wrong way to express a contra-opinion, I found. Why didn’t I pay homage to the wisdom of Sheriff Marge Gunderson in Fargo and say, “I'm not sure I agree with you a hundred percent on your police work, there, ... .” It’s just not my style, anything that smacks of wisdom and forbearance.

“Idiot,” she observed.

“You’re a bigger one,” I countered.

Anyway, resolution evaded us. Luckily the Texas team folded like a two-dollar suitcase at that point and she retired in only a mild huff. On arising this morning before her, I read where one of the teams won the game, and the world series. It wasn’t hers.

I think I’ll let her sleep. I won't mention baseball all day. Armies have marched with less provocation.

Hope

I often visit cities with major problems. Some are apparent, some aren’t. Some appeared with the mechanization of farming. Some appeared a hundred years earlier when we used the so-called “Black Laws” to systematize the disenfranchisement of former slaves. Some appeared with the opening of the Interstate Highway system. Some appeared with the Swan Decision on April 20, 1971, in which the Supreme Court of the United States unanimously upheld busing programs that aimed to speed up the racial integration of public schools in the United States. Some appeared when guns and drugs became the two products in America most easily acquired by the poor and hopeless. Some won’t become fully known until the Interstate Highway system becomes a vast parking lot covering the entire nation. (Casual observation suggests no more than ten years hence.) Some won’t appear until we see the psychological effects of children growing up in what I call “gated cities,” in which society shields them from any human that isn’t a mirror image.

I visit them all. I observe that the rain falls on the lucky and the unlucky.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m no genius. I can’t solve the problems generated by the foregoing causes, and others I didn’t mention. I can’t wave an academic voodoo-dust over a city and remove these problems. I can’t offer them a “bright-line” solution. I can’t promise them a magical prosperity just around the corner. I can’t say, “This too shall pass,” when I’m not sure it will.

What I can do is tp not insult, degrade, and humiliate them. What I can do is to not tell them that the problems are their fault and compare them to a third-world country. What I can do is offer them some ray of hope. What I can do is offer them, based on my experience and education, a path toward solutions that may help. At the same time, I might help lead them away from solutions that don’t work like those of the so-called urban designers who are telling them that planting trees on Main Street will bring back the retailers. They resemble the “cargo cult” natives of the South Sea islands who believed that making replicas of bombers would bring the Americans and their largess back to their islands after World War Two.

What I might do best is offer them the words of the Galilean in the 25^th Chapter of Matthew in the Christian New Testament:

“Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”

If the Galilean heard what the President of the United States of America said to the people of Chicago, Illinois yesterday, I feel sure he— the Galileanؙ—wept again. Maybe we’ve lost account of what is just and holy. Maybe all of our urban problems began occurring the moment we began to care more about a person’s sexual orientation than about the young child in dirty diapers sitting on a front porch in the Arkansas Delta, hungry, hopeless, and weeping for all of us, both the just and the unjust.

Regrets

Feeling old today. It happens sometimes. This week, an old friend in the urban planning profession died, unexpectedly they say. Ron Newman was his name, and he was an extraordinarily fine person. I happen to be blessed that way with friends and colleagues. Among other professional accomplishments, Ron was the director of the Capitol Zoning District office. It enforced a state law designed to protect the Arkansas State Capitol grounds and the Governor’s Mansion from being overwhelmed by tall, tawdry buildings and incompatible, i.e. crappy, land uses. That law was passed back when lawmakers cared about such things.

I served on the Mansion Area advisory committee, so Ron and I worked closely for a number of years. It’s good to work with good people. Ron and his wife moved to Colorado years ago and I’ve only seen him once, I think, since. Hearing of his death made me feel sad, old, and mortal. I'm glad I knew him, and regret I didn't see him more often.

Speaking of feeling old, you should have seen me yesterday. Once a year or so, I have to climb a ladder and remove leaves and debris from the gutters on a shop building at our farm. The cornice is 12 feet off the ground and it takes a few steps to get within reach of the gutters. The building is 60 feet long and I have a total reach of about a “phantom.” That’s about six nautical feet, or the length of a fathom according to my beloved United States Navy.

If my “gazintas” and “timeses” bear trusting, that’s about 10 trips up and down the ladder. I know that my wife and others think that I’m just turning 50, but that’s not true. My muscles and joints can attest to that this morning with perfect certainty.

I did buy a new ladder this year. It’s fiberglass, aluminum, rustproof, and much more stable than the relic I used previously. It’s one heavy summich, though. My shoulders can testify.

Oh well. As long as I’m climbing ladders, I’m on the right side of the grass, so they say. My Sainted Mother always said, “a little hard work never hurt nobody.” She well knew about hard work. She once told me how, as a young girl, she would pick to the end of a cotton row and sneak a short break while nobody was looking. While “being excused,” she would dream of finding a shiny new lady’s wristwatch lying on the grass.

I guess regrets are just nature’s way of telling us things are going to be okay as long as you have hope.

R.I.P old friend.
 The world is a better
place because
 you were here.

Theology Time

After a week off, we return to that little hill in Judea. Let us recall something the Galilean said, sort of slipped it in actually, early in his immortal Sermon on the Mount. I refer to the Gospel of Matthew 5:17-18 in which he said

“Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.

“For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled.” (KJV)

His audience at the time surely knew about “The Law” to which he referred. One hopes that the body of law didn’t include the instructions by Moses concerning the fate of the Midianites. No, he doubtless meant the laws written by God upon two tablets of stone and then given to Moses on Mount Sinai. That clears that up, right?

Not exactly. We remember of course that Moses got pissed and broke the first set that he delivered. As the late Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. would put it, “Here’s what they said:”

1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

4. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.

5. Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

6. Thou shalt not kill.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.

8. Thou shalt not steal.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's.

(KJV)

That’s a pretty high standard, despite the fact that our sisters fall into the same ownership group as servants, oxen and asses. One assumes it would even include a man’s bass boat. That inclusion must hurt. At any rate, it is not a standard by which many who claim today to be followers of the Galilean judge our modern president. He’s broken them all except may the killing part and if we accept the Galilean’s “thinking is as bad as doing” test, he’s not only done it but bragged that he could do it, and get away with it.

Maybe that’s why some followers might accept the revised edition that God gave Moses on his second trip. Here’s what it said:

1.Thou shalt worship no other god: for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

2.Thou shalt make thee no molten gods.

3. The feast of unleavened bread shalt thou keep.

4. All that openeth the matrix is mine; and every firstling among thy cattle, whether ox or sheep, that is male.

5. Six days thou shalt work, but on the seventh day thou shalt rest.

6. Thou shalt observe the feast of weeks, of the firstfruits of wheat harvest, and the feast of ingathering at the year's end.

7. Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leaven.

8. Neither shall the sacrifice of the feast of the passover be left unto the morning.

9. The first of the firstfruits of thy land thou shalt bring unto the house of the Lord thy God.

10. Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother's milk.

(KJV)

That’s a bit easier. Maybe we could just call him “The Second-Set President” and ease him through. Most of the editors I know tend to accept a final published version as the authoritative one, so even the industry he despises so much might offer some solace. Mission accomplished?

No, there’s still those first two. Drats. Have faith though. Franklin Graham will figure out a way. He always does. He leaves no stone of sin unpolished while the Galilean continues to weep. I hope he's not watching us now.

Complexity

I don’t think this is classified. Even if it is, I’ll share it anyway. How could they prosecute me for breaking my Oath of Enlistment while Cadet Bone Spurs and pals daily violate their Oath of Office? Besides, I plan to make a professional point to fellow urban planners and students of public administration.

It starts this way: I possess certain information that I wish to pass along to those who never experienced the blessings of military service. It can be a hoot at times. Not so much so at others. But one learns things.

What I plan to divulge is this: There used to be, when I served my country, an approved military method of treating an infestation of crabs in the pubic area. It specified that one first shave half of said pubic area, leaving the other half bare.

Now we come to the useful part. I’m not sure this is still doctrine. I don’t think the U.S. Navy is as manly as it used to be. Anyway, having shaved half the infested area, one then applies cigarette-lighter fluid to the other half and sets it afire. The terrified crabs flee into the shaved area whereupon the subject stabs them to death with a sharp icepick. There, call me a whistle-blower if you wish.

You might ask, “ What’s the point? Okay keep up.

Fast-forward to modern times. This is exactly the method that many cities use in writing their zoning regulations. And the writers wonder why there is such screaming during the application of those regulations.

It extends to the state regulation writers as well. And the feds have fully-automatic icepicks that can deliver 60 strikes a minute. Have you ever read the U.S. Tax Code? It’s harder to read than some zoning codes. I once read the instructions for taking out money from your IRA. If I remember correctly, it was twelve pages of tiny-font gibberish.

And there are zoning codes that take four paragraphs to tell you where the front-yard setback line runs, an odd fact because front yard setbacks are a bit anachronistic in today’s world. The problem in deciding where they go stems from what to call the front of the house. See, there are overhangs, cornices, foundation extension, front porches, bay windows, and oh, my head is spinning.

And so we go. We no longer address problems with a “Hey kids, let’s put on a show.” Now it’s “Hey kids, let’s complicate the hell out of anything we can find.”

And we wonder why kids stare at their cell phones all day.

The Searchers

Fiction Friday: Here's the first part of a piece inspired by an actual incident that occurred in an undisclosed town in Arkansas. You'll remember the off-stage protagonist, Sheila, from previous encounters. Continued next week.

LOOKING FOR MISS SHEILA

By Jimmie von Tungeln

© 2007

            Thomas Hyatt and Sweeney were the first to return, the oldest and the slowest. Thomas had never liked horses and by this point in his life was only good for helping out. Sweeney was just capable of taking orders from Thomas but seemed to enjoy it, so he rated a front row seat in the little local drama. Those who had stayed in town would only hear the story second hand. The remaining participants wandered in singly or in pairs and never talked about it.

Bobby Ray heard the two had returned after a busy morning, that being the reason he didn’t hurry right over to hear the details. It sounded big, so he found himself hating the delay and cursing his responsibilities. News like this generally bypassed the City of Armistead, or came directly to him. Being City Attorney held its advantages. He rarely had to work to stay abreast of things. That’s the way he preferred it: a slow and mellow absorption of history.

But this morning rolled over him like a bad smell. Earlier, he had been trying his best to stay busy. Tilted in his office chair, with his feet resting on the edge of his desk, he was dozing lightly in the morning stillness. The phone rang and he would have fallen to the floor if the wall hadn’t stopped him. Straightened in the chair, he growled into the phone and heard the voice of Deputy Boggs.

“Mr. Hinson?”

“Yeah, what?”

            “It’s Ola Mae Turner’s dog again. He got out again and tore up two flower beds.” The deputy paused and then continued when he heard Bobby swear. “Now he’s got the Baxter kid cornered at City Park. Chief’s out of town. What can I do?”

            Trying to focus, Bobby Ray snapped into the phone. “How in the hell am I supposed to know?”

            “The Chief is out of town,” he repeated. “You the City Attorney. Ain’t you in charge?”

            “I’m not in charge of anything. Why the hell are you calling me?”

            “I had to call somebody. Maybe he bites that kid; then what?  I need somebody to tell me what to do.”

            “What to do?”

            “About the dog.”

            “The dog?”

            “Yeah, the dog.”

“Shoot the son of bitch!”

            The phone went dead and he listened for a moment for a voice. None came. He wondered if he had been dreaming and replaced the phone in its cradle. Before he dozed again, he thought perhaps he should walk to window. He would be able to see the park from there. He could see, see if the call had really happened. He could see what was going on from there. He could even yell down to the deputy if he needed to. He just had to stand up and walk over. Just stand, and walk. The world returned to gray and he decided that he had been dreaming.

            The explosion and the falling were all part of his dreaming until he hit the floor. This time the wall didn’t catch him. His right leg jumped harder than the left, twisting the chair just enough to clear the wall and slam his head into the wooden floor. “Dammit! he yelled as streaks went in all directions. He rolled over and rose to his knees. Through the pain and confusion, he could hear screaming and a jumble of voices from the direction of the park.

            He spent the rest of the morning attending to the disposition of the deceased, the consoling of the Widow Turner, and attempting to explain the concept of common sense to Deputy Boggs.

            He was somewhere in this process when Roy Middleton, Armistead’s pharmacist, called with the first news.

            “They’re coming back,” Roy shouted into the phone. “Meet me at the ‘Bowl.”

            “Can’t now. Got dog problems.”

            “Dog problems?”

            “It’s a long story.”

            “Well get here as soon as you can. This is going to be good.”

            “Would’t miss it for the world. Wait for me.”

            An hour later Bobby Ray ushered Deputy Boggs to the door with assurances of protection when the Chief returned and walked back to his desk. Several pages of yellow paper lay scattered about. He knew he should consolidate them before the memories of the details faded. Instead, he thought of the crowd that would be gathered by now at the Cotton Bowl.

            “Screw you,” he jeered at the notes. He took the Deputy’s confiscated shotgun and locked in his office closet. He started to put the closet key into his desk drawer then stopped. Instead, he pitched the key into the trash can by the desk. “Time for the show,” he said as he headed for the door.

            The Cotton Bowl Cafe was the official nerve center of Armistead. Behind its ancient doors, news was made, reported, embellished and evaluated for induction into the official folklore of the county. News that that was too old, too boring, or too sanitized for the Cotton Bowl was forwarded to the Armistead County Weekly. The rest was forgotten.

Shorty Huddelston’s father became proprietor when the third owner died in World War Two. He ran the place and served as the unspoken sergeant-at-arms for the group that assembled twice daily for coffee, food, news and gossip. Usually the crowd had thinned by two o’clock in the afternoon and Shorty would begin closing for the day. But today there was a full table near the rear of the main dining area when Bobby Ray walked in. “Lai dai,” Shorty said to him, a reminder that this group bonded more than most due to the fact that all had served in Vietnam. “Come on back, we’re just getting started.”

            He hurried to the back where, in addition to Shorty and Roy Middelton, sat Steve Singleton, Jr, the local banker and John Merriweather, the State Farm Insurance agent. The men had formed a semi-circle with an outer chair saved for Bobby Ray. In a lone chair at the center of the semi-circle sat a red-faced boy about 14 years old. He was sitting on his hands, looking from face to face. To Bobby Ray, he looked like a witness on the stand—a guilty one.

            “Hello Sweeney,” he said to the youngster.

            “Mr. Hinson.”

            “Who else is back?” Bobby Ray looked at Shorty.

            “Just Sweeney here and Thomas Hyatt. “Thomas wasn’t haulin’ no horse or nothin’ so he come back when it was all over and dropped Sweeney off here. Then he went home and went to bed.”

            Shorty stopped and reached over to pat the boy on the back. “But Sweeney here is gonna’ tell us the whole story. Ain’t you Sweeney?”

            Sweeney looked at Shorty and then from face to face. He said nothing.

            “How come you went along in the first place?” Booby Ray asked. Sweeney lowered his head and stared at the floor.

            “Oh, Sweeney is the official horse-tender for the Armistead, Arkansas Mounted Auxiliary Police. Ain’t that right?” Shorty looked at Sweeney and smiled.

            Sweeney looked at Shorty and didn’t answer. Then he looked at Bobby Ray and nodded, barely.

            Bobby Ray smiled and pulled his chair closer. “Now Sweeney, we just want you to tell us about the trip you made. It’s not often that a boy like you gets to travel all the way past Little Rock, clear to Hot Springs and back on a real adventure.” He bent over until his face was level with Sweeney’s and then spoke softly. “You comfortable? Are you hungry?”

            “We ain’t ate since yesterdy evenin’.” He looked from face to face again and squirmed on his hands.

            “Get the boy some food,” John said to Shorty. “Hell, he can’t tell us a story on an empty stomach, can he?”

            “How about something to drink?” Roy said, “You want a cold drink?”

            Sweeney looked up and nodded.

            “Get the man a drink,” Roy said to Shorty who had gotten up and was walking behind the counter.

            “I’m gettin’ it,” said Shory. “But you go ahead and tell us about it, Sweeney - and talk loud enough for me to hear.”

            All eyes turned toward Sweeney who dropped his face again.

(To Be Continued)

The End or the Beginning?

One has to worry that yesterday marked the beginning of the march to the end of the world as we know it. Maybe more accurately, maybe it marked the beginning of the return to a world from which our ancestors recoiled. America has lived through a lawless history before. The last significant one was in 1968, the year that I was sent to war, presumable in harm’s way. From the accounts we heard, there was plenty of harm awaiting those who didn’t go to war. Just ask Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy. That period seemed to have its ending point when, on May 4^th, 1970, some of our brothers in the Ohio National Guard fired upon some of our brothers and sisters on the campus of Kent State University, killing four and wounding nine more.

The nation recoiled and began to heal itself.

Yesterday, though, was the first time one of our sacred places were invaded by the lawless who were members of our own national congress and whose actions were suborned  by the President of the United States of America. To borrow a phrase from a far better president, it was "date which will live in infamy ... ."

It was a sad day and one that will lead us to take a fork in the road of the fate of our nation. One road will let to anarchy of the type once described in a novel folks thought ludicrous at the time, It Can’t Happen Here, by Sinclair Lewis. The other fork could, by national revulsion to its action, lead us back to a road of relative harmony.

Taking a warning from Mr. Lewis, we need to watch for the appearance of brown-shirted gangs calling themselves such names as “Trump’s Troopers,” “Posses of Purity, “Nuklaverns,” or “Der Braunhemden.” That will signal the end.

Let us hope that instead we see a national revulsion to the acts of few yesterday. It can’t simply be a revulsion from progressive students of history, though. It must come within the incubators that spawned such a hideous act.

After all, this is America, still. We can at least hope so.

Off to earn today but here is a fascinating article from Science Daily. Maybe there's hope yet
Click Here.

The Past as Baseball

I must confess an affection for college students, not the kind that just want to get “credentialed,” for a high-paying job, but the sincere ones who want to learn. So, I felt remorse Sunday when I talked to a group from Missouri State University. We met in Mountain View, Arkansas, a nice community in a beautiful and historic part of our state. I was to talk to them about planning for rural communities. Their eyes were bright and their minds were eager. I had some hardball facts ready to hurl.

As I say, I felt remorse. It involved at least two aspects. On first base there stands the truth that my generation isn’t handing them a very good place to enter as working adults. We have started the planet to frying and I’m not sure we would have time to stop it even should we want to. Maybe, you will say, the mindset that allows this started way before my time. That’s probably true, but no excuse. We had the time and brains to go about things differently but chose not to.

On second base stands the fact that those young folks will have to survive the after effects of the worst presidential administration in the history of our country. I can only wish them luck.

It’s certainly no excuse, but my generation had a few bumps in our nine innings. The so-called “Greatest Generation,” having lived through the Great Depression and World War Two, were benignly determined that we would have it better. Accordingly they ,spoiled us unmercifully. At least I thought so until a person of impeccable veracity related seeing a family dining in public recently and watching a father spoon feed a six-year-old son who wouldn’t remove his hands or eyes from his cell phone.

“Well then there now,” as Jett Rink said to Leslie Benedict in the 1956 film epic Giant. I guess that would translate roughly to, "it is what it is." As I say, we had a few spitballs thrown our way. First in the lineup, at least for males, was The Draft. Oooh boy.

We complied with it, most of us anyway. Even when they ordered some of us to sacrifice so other runners would advance, we complied, picked up our gear, and headed for the dugout. At least we headed for southeast Asia.

It may have been an illegal war, probably was, from all accounts. It was surely a bad call from whomever was umpiring the game. We went anyway. We may have thought the Constitution of the United States treated us shabbily, but we never thought it a phony document, only one that could be used by phony people. So, into the “valley of the shadow of death” we went. Most came home. Some didn’t. Some never were the same after they got back. Now they tell the ones who are still around that there is another monster associated with the color orange that may be waiting around the next corner.

No matter. We were called. We went. We served. Each suffered in his or her own way. It didn’t matter. At this age, some of us are even proud we served.

The hard part is that our country has never forgiven us for it.

The other hard part was that when we got home there was a man standing on third base, having been born there and now ready to score for the big win.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Donald Trump and I’ve just hit the biggest and best triple that’s ever been hit in the history of baseball.”

Well then there now. I didn’t tell the students Sunday about that. I just told them that, as far as planning for rural towns was concerned, there wasn’t any. I didn’t tell them that nobody cared. I figured that they had enough things to worry about.

Not much to plan for in the rural South

Being Young

Don’t know why, but I do. I have this pathological inability to say no. My pal Rob Middleton has the same malady, so we both spend a lot of time doing pro bono stuff for our professions. So … nearly a year ago, I acquiesced to a request from an assistant professor at Missouri State University in Springfield to speak to a class in geography/planning.

Of course, I forgotten all about it until an email reminded me that it was to be October 20 (yesterday) and in Mt. View, Arkansas at 11:30. That would put me there the day after a 12-hour bus tour to the sites of the Battle of Helena in 1863 and the following Little Rock Campaign. For those who may not know, that's from far SE Arkansas to far N Arkansas.

Jimmie wept.

But, things started getting better immediately. The World’s Best Travelling Companion, who, herself had just returned from a three-day “girls only” jaunt to NW Arkansas offered to accompany me. We hastily worked out the arrangements.

Things continued to get better when it turned out to be a beautiful Arkansas Fall Day. Traffic was slight and we talked away during the two-hour trip. Got there a little early and parked on the square by the Courthouse, our agreed upon rendezvous point.

I was feeling better by then, due somewhat to memories of escaping from college for a Saturday evenings of folk music with Jimmie Driftwood and crowd on the Courthouse lawn and, much later, afternoons spend picking the banjo in jam sessions with total strangers.

Have I ever mentioned that I love visiting with young folks who want to learn? Well, the group showed, we found a shady pavilion, and I told them about small town planning in Arkansas, to-wit, there ain’t none except what the Arkansas Chapter of our planning association, in conjunction with the Arkansas Political Action Coalition, and the Arkansas Municipal League furnishes.

They were fine folks, these students. They knew about the federal land grants to veterans of the War of 1812 that resulted in the settling of much of the land in North Arkansas. They knew about the great Ian McHarg, the father of GIS, and other things of note and interest. They knew about the relationship between planning and regulating. It always amazes me that, if one gets off social media and talks to actual living, breathing college students, our country’s future looks a lot brighter.

I smiled and had a ball.

After they left, we strolled around, my best pal and I. Went inside a few places that were open purchased some items of course, found a nice Mexican Restaurant, and dined.

I had forgotten how beautiful it is in and around Mountain View. We plan to go back.

Dr. Evans and part of her group.

Off today to meet a group of students form SW Missouri up in north AR. I don't think it's that far up north in the state, for they may be African-American students. Oh well. I think the Klan members will all be in church. I'll report on it next week.

Maybe.

Home Again

I may have posted this before, but it's my favorite. Not fiction as much as autobiography with garnish.

Home

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            Love Field, in Dallas, Texas was a lonely place at four o’clock in the morning but the man didn’t mind. He was home, or at least close to home. The terminal was nearly deserted when he awoke. The ticket counters had closed and only a few passengers, stranded as was he, waited for some flight at some time to take them somewhere to do something. He straightened the white Navy hat on his head and looked around. Most in the area were dozing. A mother held a baby to her chest and rocked softly, humming. A young couple leaned against one another and slept, holding hands. A bearded man studied a paperback book. “Just waiting,” the man thought, “waiting for something.”

            He smiled. He was the lucky one. He reached down pulled his sea bag closer, and then leaned back to continue his wait. The terminal gave forth a soft hum that seemed to sing peace. He was safe and it felt good.

            His wait had begun ten hours sooner. On deplaning from his flight into Dallas, he learned that service to his home state was sporadic, that the next flight with available seats wouldn’t leave for 24 hours. “No,” the agent had said, “you can’t check your bag now.” He’d have to wait, she had told him, until later to see how full the flight would be with regular passengers before they could gauge his chances of flying standby. No problem, he would wait and purchase a ticket later. Waiting was easy. He had made a career of it for the last 12 months. He could wait another day, or more if need be.

            Then, from a pay phone, he had called home with the news. Disappointment sounded in his mother’s voice but only slightly. Nothing could spoil her joy at hearing his voice at a place so nearly home. Then she had devised a plan. “Your brother is off work for a long weekend. What if we drove to Dallas and picked you up? We could have you home before that flight got here, and that’s if you even got a seat.”

            “That’s a lot of driving,” he said.

            “Son,” she said, “don’t you remember that morning you left?”

            “Yes,” he said. “I remember it well.”

            “Well then know that ever day since then, any time I heard the telephone ring I just drawed up in a knot. I thought December of 1968 wouldn’t never get here. It has, and ridin’ that far in a car to get my boy don’t mean shit to me.”

            He laughed. “You haven’t changed,” he said.

            “No,” she said. I ain’t changed and I hope you ain’t either.”

            “I haven’t,” he said. “Just don’t make me stand in line for a meal when I get home. Promise?”

            “I promise. Now you call back in 30 minutes and I’ll tell you if we worked it out and when we might get there. Then all you have to do is wait. Okay?”

            “Okay,” he said, and so he waited. Half an hour later, he made the second call. The deal was on. They discussed directions and estimated times. Then he returned the phone to its holder and returned to his seat.

Night came and the terminal emptied. He read a book had chosen from a bookstore in the California terminal with the odd-sounding title, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, written by a man named Thomas Wolfe. It kept him amused until sleep intervened. He slept until an unpleasant dream awakened him. “No,” he said to himself. “you’re back now.” Awake, he began to read it again.

            He had seen the sun rise so many times during the last year that, even with the difference in time zones, he sensed its arrival. With it, the sounds of the terminal increased and the temperature rose as mechanical systems awoke and lumbered into action. He removed his heavy pea coat and laid it lengthwise on his sea bag. The terminal began to fill with people and the ticket counters opened one by one. The man creased the edge of a page and placed his book on his lap, taking a deep breath and exhaling. It had been more than two days now, including the trans-Pacific flight, but he still wasn’t used to a smell that wasn’t Vietnam. He was watching the bustle of the terminal when a voice to his right said, “Mind if I join you?”

            A man past middle age, with graying hair, said, “Name’s Bottoms, Seabees, World War Two. Always enjoy talking to a fellow swabbie.” He extended a hand.

            The other shook it. “Hinson,” he said. “Tim Hinson. Have a seat.”

            Bottoms was wearing a camelhair overcoat, which, when removed, revealed a well-tailored blue suit with vest and school tie. He draped the overcoat over a seat, placed a briefcase on it, and sat beside Hinson. “Trying to get to a meeting in San Antonio,” he said. “They say someday there will be more than one flight a day headed there.”

            Hinson nodded. “I’m trying to get home to Arkansas. Maybe they’ll have more than one flight every two days there by that time.”

            Bottoms laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “I see those ribbons. Guess you’ve been overseas. My neighbor’s son came back from his tour in Vietnam wearing some of the same ones. You have an extra one, though.” He pointed at a fourth ribbon.

            “It’s a unit citation,” he said. “For the Naval Support Activity.”

            “Did you support?”

            “I guarded those who supported,” Hinson said. “Naval security.”

            “What rating is that?”

            “No rating, just something they thought up and made me do for a year.”

            “The Navy can think up stuff,” can’t it?”

            “They can indeed,” Hinson said. “You said Seabees. Were you in construction before the war?”

            “Hell no,” Bottoms said. “I was a newspaper man. But I was too old for the other services. The Seabees took older men so that’s where a bunch of us ended up.”

            “Where did you serve?”

            “In the South Pacific,” Bottoms said. “So many little islands I can’t remember the name of them. How about you?”

            “Da Nang,” Hinson said, “in the I-Corps area.”

            “We never made it that far,” Bottoms said. “We were rebuilding at Okinawa when they dropped the bombs. It wasn’t long after that our outfit started shipping out for home.”

            “Bet those were happy days.”

            “Mostly,” Bottoms said, “except for one awful thing.”

            Hinson didn’t respond. Bottoms, however, wanted to continue. “They used to drink something called “torpedo juice,” he said. “The guys off the submarines made it from stuff they packed torpedoes in. It was the only way to get drunk on those islands sometimes.”

            Hinson listened. Bottoms stopped, composed himself, and continued. “We had this guy in our unit named Carl Luchenstein, a husband and father, who never drank nor smoked, just did his job and sent his pay home to his family. On the night after Japan signed the surrender papers, he agreed to take one drink to celebrate the end of the war.” He stopped.

            Hinson said nothing, simply waited for the unfolding. Bottoms continued. “Turns out that toward the end of the war, they changed the ingredients, and the torpedo juice came to be poisonous. Some say they did it on purpose, so it would make the sailors who drank it get sick—so the practice would stop.”

            “So this man got sick?”

            “No,” Bottoms said. “He was a small man and wasn’t used to alcohol in any form. Carl died, some 12 hours after the war ended.”

            Neither man spoke for a time. Then Bottoms brightened. “Hey,” he said, “I didn’t come over to bring you down. Let me tell you about one of the good times.”

            Hinson nodded, and Bottoms said, “We came back on a Cruiser and docked in San Francisco. Know what the folks there did? We all went out on deck coming through The Golden Gate, and over on the hills in Marin County, they had hauled big rocks in and painted them white. They spelled out ‘Welcome Home Boys’ in huge white letters. Sure made us feel good.”

            Bottoms immediately caught himself when Hinson lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They don’t do that for you guys, do they?”

            “No sir, they don’t,” Hinson said.

            “Was there any welcome home for you?”

            ‘No sir,” Hinson said. “There are war protestors that routinely meet the planes coming in from Vietnam, and they don’t want any ruckuses. They briefed us on how to get by them without incident.”

            Bottoms didn’t respond for a moment, the said, “Shitty deal, if you ask me.” The two sat in silence. Finally Bottoms spoke, “It’s a different world now.” He looked at his watch and said, “Hey, got to go. I think they’ve opened my ticket window. Godspeed.” He rose, shook Hinson’s hand again, picked up his overcoat and briefcase, and walked away.

            Hinson stared at his hands for a moment, and picked up his book. He had started to open it when a loud crash and commotion caught his attention. Across the terminal from where Hinson sat, a businessman’s briefcase flew across the terminal floor, scattering pages in all directions. He had collided with a runner who slammed into another man who then stumbled into a companion. People began to jump aside to avoid the runner. Hinson stared.

            The source of the disturbance was a small woman no more than five feet tall and weighing probably less than a hundred pounds. She wore a white blouse with a red scarf flowing behind it. A blue skirt rode up to reveal thin legs that seemed to churn like pistons. A loud shriek pierced the air as all eyes in the terminal turned toward her. Hinson broke into a smile. It was his mother. He stood and faced her.

            When she was three feet away, she leaped. He almost lost his balance as she slammed into him and draped her arms and legs around his body. “Son, son, son,” she cried. For nearly a moment, neither moved. Then she slowly slid from him and stood on solid ground. Tears had smeared makeup and her glasses had fogged. “Oh lord,” was all she said.

At that moment, a slight young man in his early twenties walked up. He looked Hinson over. “Hey brother,” he said. They shook hands.

From far away, in the corner of the terminal, a person began to clap, a sharp and lonely sound in the huge area. It was Bottoms. A person not far away joined, then another, and another. The entire terminal exploded with applause. It lasted several minutes filling the building and spreading beyond its walls into the morning. His mother turned and acknowledged the crowd. Hinson smiled and nodded. His brother studied the floor until the noise subsided and people returned to their own business.

She held his hand with one of hers and wiped away tears with the other. They looked at one another without speaking. He raised an arm and wiped each side of her face with a sleeve of his blouse. “You look great,” he said.

She smiled, raised her eyes to his, and found her voice. “Let’s go home, son,” she said.

Not the real scene, but close, very close.

Growth

I enjoy my profession of urban planning. That’s why I still dabble in it and try to stay somewhat informed. As part of this dabbling, I get to travel all over the state and visit any city that invites me. Each is different. Some problems are typical. Some are unique. The folks who run the cities and operate them are uniformly dedicated.

There is one common characteristic, however. Without fail, every city I visit is, at this very moment, chasing development away to other cities because of its onerous development regulations. This, in turn, is stifling population growth, making the city stagnant, and killing morale. These regulations include zoning codes, subdivision codes, and the state building code, i.e. The Arkansas State Fire Code. Actually, the last one is a state law, but “scolders” hate being burdened with facts.

Those regulations, by the way, are mandated, by ancient law, to “protect the health, safety, welfare, and morals of the community. Would that federal laws enjoyed the same strictures.

Anyhow, I decided to do an amateurish and simple study about this. I formed an operational definition of onerous regulations. Were they complex? Were they very detailed? Did observance result in delays in approval. Did some regs drift beyond the “police power” definition of protecting the health, safety, welfare, and morals of The People? Were some regulations unique to a particular city? In short, did their regulatory system “jump the fence” at times?

Then I went to work. I classified a sampling of major cities against a “ratio” level of measurement. That’s considered the most useful. For snorts and giggles, I factored in population growth since 1971. That’s the year that the U.S. Supreme Court, in Swann v. Charlotte-Mecklenburg Board of Education, upheld busing programs that aimed to speed up the racial integration of public schools in the United States. That, as most honest urbanists know, was the single most critical catalyst of population growth among many cities in America since.

Well, wouldn’t you know, strictness of development regulations and population growth came out almost perfectly correlated. Now one of the few things I remember from graduate school was not to confuse correlation with causation. I can’t argue that strict development regulations caused population growth. They sure as hell didn’t stop it though. Probably the perils of rapid and uncontrolled population growth moved cities toward more stringent development control. I’ll let future generations of urban scholars work on that one.

As with many things currently facing America, to understand why some cities flourish and some struggle with out-migration, we need to look elsewhere besides the complexity of municipal codes.

Maybe the mirror?

Professionals

Went to a public hearing last evening. For a change, I wasn’t involved, just there for informational purposes. I have no personal interest in the city where it happened. I’m doing some work for them and thought it might prove useful to attend.

The important thing was the man who made the presentation. His name is James Walden and he grew up in Benton, Arkansas. I’ve known him for, maybe, 10 years. He wondered into my office one day, back when I was working full-time. He was coming to Little Rock to attend graduate school and sought part-time work.

Wouldn’t you know it? He was soon working with me full-time and soaking in our profession like a huge sponge. After I sold the company to him, he ran it for a while and then went to one of the largest engineering firms in the South. Now, he’s the planning director for one of the major cities in our state. He had prepared a comprehensive plan for the City of Sherwood, Arkansas while he was still with the engineering firm and came back to present it.

Well. Now I know how if feels to have someone grow past you like William Faulkner did Sherwood Anderson. I feel good about it, if a little humiliated.

Oh well. Maybe if I work hard, I can catch up with him.

Guilt

Sometimes I think I may have been a troublesome child. Then I see what has happened to other people’s children and I think I wasn’t too bad. It’s just that I always got caught doing things other kids and people were doing.

I could be the middle driver in a long lane of speeding vehicles. An officer will invariably pull alongside me, stop me, and let the others pass by laughing.

That’s why I’ve learned to be extra careful. I’m like the person who gets slapped in a sports contest. Should that person slap back, guess who the referee sees and upon whom shall the foul be called?

My younger brother understood this process to “the T.” He was a master at taunting me until Sainted Mother looked our way as I responded. He could play the injured party like a puppy spanked for chewing on your britches leg.

Of course, I never was one to respond to taunting unless there was an audience.

For educational purpose only, one of the best tactics in getting away with a transgression is to project that transgression upon your victim when you are caught. It’s easy, just place blame on the victim for doing what it was that you were doing.

“He was stealing my toys.”

“He called you an old fat cow.”

“He came up and tried to spray me with a water pistol. I was just watering your plants with mine.”

Evidently, according to the daily news, this is a tactic that remains with some of us throughout our lives.

Another tested and true tactic is what I call, “Going after your opponent’s strength.”

“He is so much bigger and stronger than me. Do you think I would start something?”

“You always said he was smart. Can’t you see how he talks me into doing something wrong?”

“So he gained a Purple Heart and a Silver Star, that means he had to cheat to get them.”

Oops. Got carried away. That’s enough for today.

Forgiveness

It gets harder, this Sermon on the Mount. We have to remember that the Galilean wasn’t speaking to his “Base” out there in Judea. These were strangers. Most were there, probably, because they had heard of the miracles. They may have shown up for personal reasons. Then this dude springs the following on them.

“Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Matthew 5:43-44 (KJV)

If you wonder how Franklin Graham can stand to look at himself in the mirror each morning, join the crowd.

I’m not sure what he, the Galilean, not Franklin, would have done if a bunch of bandits had attacked just then. Maybe he was talking just about the normal kind of enemies, say the kind that run against you for political office. Such an “enemy” is not really out to do us either physical or lasting harm. They are, shall we say, “competitors” more than enemies. When did we begin to think of them as enemies and treat them as such?

If we want better to understand the current plight of our country, we don’t have to listen to an endless parade of pundits. Just consider Ruby Bridges. Whether one remembers or not, Ruby was a six-year old child who was the first black student to attend a previously segregated white school in New Orleans in 1960. It is at once a terrifying, cringe-worthy, and uplifting story about a young girl who marched among federal marshals and before a sweating crowd of people screaming obscenities and curses each morning and afternoon. On some days, they even carried a child’s coffin with an African-American doll in it.

Some so-called “mothers” led the crowd. They soon gained the nickname, “The Cheerleaders” and John Steinbeck, who made a special detour to watch them, reported that some of the crowd came just to watch the women in action. Their hatred had created a national following. Norman Rockwell even captured the time in a painting.

Throughout it all, little Ruby just marched by to her schooling. At first, she was the only child in the class, the white students refusing to attend. People saw her praying as she walked by. This, a grown Ruby now attests to. What was she praying for, or whom? The narrator in this video says that she told him she was praying for her tormentors. It may sound a bit convenient to our cynical ears, but if it is true, The Galilean has at least one victor in America’s recent history.

Again, if one wants to know what’s wrong with America now, watch a film of Ruby walking by the crowd. Those kids hanging with their parents in the mob are in their sixties now, or beyond. They have had a lifetime to teach their children who are now teaching their children.

What, exactly, are they teaching? Well you can bet your sweet buttooty it ain’t always The Sermon on The Mount.

Oh, and a brave parent of a white child eventually brought his son to join Ruby, then another, and another. Someone had heard of The Sermon. The crowd finally lost the battle, but judging from current headlines, not the war. But we press on, despite being called names ourselves. I like “Libtard” the best. Some of my friends prefer “Snowflake.” We keep on, though. With the image of Ruby Bridges in our minds, and the words from that Judean hill, it should be a litter easier. The Galilean would have it no other way.

Who was this man who broke the pattern? A Catholic? A Baptist? A Pentecostal? A Church of Christer?

No. He was a Methodist minister.

Courage

If you want to see how low we’ve allowed social media to take us, don’t look at Facebook. That’s what it’s there for: to bring out the worst in us. Twitter? I don’t know since I avoid it. It sure seems not only to lower the standards of its users, but to monopolize the press in doing so. It may end up being the single most telling artifact that the aliens find among the rusted ruins of our civilization.

No, if you want to see the epitome of lowlife, the pire que tout of the proof of our social and intellectual downfall, go to YouTube. Once there, find a wondrous Mozart piano sonata. I’m fond of the 21^st, but choose your favorite. Find a good, but not legendary performer. Young ones seem to bring out the worst in us. It is quite possible that, if you start down the comment string, you find an untoward comment. It may have to do with the music. More likely it will address the type of instrument, the performer’s sexual appeal, the conductor, or even the lighting.

The next comment will be directed at the previous commenter. From there it may descend into the type of verbal exchange that, if made face-to-face in my hometown, would have caused a “shootin’ scrape.”

This for a Mozart sonata. Here’s an actual exchange from a Schumann concerto featuring a female in somewhat modern attire.

First comment: “Who else wants to put their hand down the back of that dress?”

Second comment: “The woman can wear whatever she god damn [sic] want to.”

This all makes me recall that a writer or interviewee will on occasion, make a statement that I envy immensely. (My favorite described Oliver North when he ran for the Senate. A national journalist observed, “I have nothing against Mr. North. It’s just that there is a faint smell of sulfur about him.”) But, back to our point here, someone on NPR once commented about a tirade by someone that, “It had all the sophistication of a YouTube comment thread.”

They say that anonymity and/or distance are the keys. Social media allows us to say things we would never say either in polite society or a small-town saloon.

What is odd to me is the transition that I see in old and dear friends. I attribute it to a combination of social media and political organizations that operate beyond the “pale” of human decency. I see posts by people, some who claim to be, and some I know to be, ministers of some Christian group or another. I knew them once as kind, generous, loving people, literally brimming with the “milk of human kindness.” Now there’s no Russian-made meme viciously attacking an innocent person or family that they won’t post for, literally, the world to see.

That world includes old friends, grandmothers, associates, colleagues, parishioners, and young, impressionable minds. It sure confuses me. Myself? I stop with “grandmother.” Even though she attained only a third-grade education before her father, a Civil War veteran died, I just wouldn’t want her to read some things. That being said, she was a bit of a character, so I feel empowered to push the boundaries at times.

That’s why I don’t mind sharing my third-favorite journalist quip. I thought of it last night when a supporter claimed something awful that the president of the United States of America said was intended as just a joke. The quip was by the late William F. Buckley, Jr. He responded to some argument by an adversary with, “That’s a bit like getting a charge of sodomy changed to following too closely.”

Feel free to share your favorite, but remember Grand-mamma Rodgers may be watching.

The Coming

The Second Coming

By Jimmie von Tungeln

Part Three: Inspired by a true story

Previously we’ve watched the adventures of two boys in the Depression-Era Arkansas Delta. Something in night sky has them concerned now.

Clifton materialized in a second and, after assuring himself that I hadn't been shot, pointed to the sky. "What in the hell is that?"

            What we were looking was described by a lot of people in a lot of different ways, but I can tell you what it looked like to me, and, if Clifton were here, he would probably tell you the same thing. It was a great ball of fire off to the east and it was moving in mysterious loops looking to the whole world like a fiery host descending toward us ever so deliberately.

            There are those who say it wrote out various messages but don’t believe that. It was just moving back and forth across the sky like it was trying to decide exactly where it wanted to land. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you it was a frightening spectacle.

            "Let's get the hell out from here," said Clifton. I couldn't have been more in agreement.

            We didn't have to take the route back through the woods.  We could hear the whole Ratliff family already heading out to the road, all of them yelling for Gehaw.  Clifton and I just skirted the edge of the field until we hit the road and then we started down it like we had been there all along.

            "Dammit, I thought you was shot," said Clifton. 

            "No, I think he just got scared and pulled the trigger."

            "I don't blame him," said Clifton as he watched the light in the sky. "I don't like the looks of this at all."

            "Neither do I," I said. "Do you really think it's the end of the world?"

            "Could be," he said. "Got to happen some time. Let's head down to the Church."

            "That ‘age of accountability thing,’" I asked, "Are you sure about that?"

            "Oh yeah," he said. "Besides, we never done nothin'. Don't reckon they can get you for just plannin' to do something can they?"

            "Heck, I don't know," I said. “They can tell what you’re thinking can’t...”

            "Dang, look at the people!"  Clifton interrupted. Sure enough, with a full moon out now you could see pretty clearly. There was a file of people ahead, and every time we passed a house, another family would emerge from the front door and join the throng. They seemed to be in a trance of some kind. They walked stiff legged, like they were walking in their sleep maybe. Nobody said much and everyone just looked straight ahead except for the kids, who were taking everything in.

I began to recognize so many shapes on the road up in front of us that I guessed the whole county was turning out, white and black alike. They were all in the same group. Nobody said anything. They still just looked straight ahead.

            We stayed behind the line so we could see. We eventually got to the Centerville crossroads. At this point, the black families peeled off to the right towards their church. As they reformed, I could hear them beginning to sing. Then I could hear a shout or two. It seemed to me at the time that they almost sounded happy. Clifton and I stopped to allow the stragglers to get ahead of us. I glanced around, sort of hoping it had gone.

It was still there – if anything it was even closer.

            "Maybe it is the end of the world," I said.

            "Look at Grandma and Grandaddy!" said Clifton, pointing at Uncle T. J. and Aunt Hallie who were in a crowd about twenty feet in front of us and visible now in the.  "They still got their nightclothes on!"

            And sure enough both were dressed like they were ready to step right into bed. We surmised that they, like everyone else had been surprised by the spectacle in the sky and, assuming the worst, had rushed out without bothering to change. As we began to recognize more of out friends and relatives, we marked a variety of dress as if the end of the world had truly caught everyone unprepared.

            "Let's hang back, I got to figure this out," said Clifton. We sat down under a tree. Then he looked at me like there was some the answer to some long-hidden problem surfacing in his mind. "By the way, who was that man come to meet Gehaw?"

            "You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I said.

            "God almighty, look a yonder!"  Clifton said, pointing to the shy where the light had appeared again, this time making a beeline for the crowd of travelers who filled the road. There was a mixed chorus of screams, halleluiah’s, prayers and singing as some dove for the ditches on either side, some grabbed one another, and some just fell to their knees to wait for the worst.

            Clifton and I just stood back behind the rest, taking in the scene.  I guess we felt a little secure because of our age. Or maybe we relaxed in the knowledge that the most important sin of our lives to this point had been curtailed before it really got under way. But I also think maybe there was a slight flash of understanding, something hinting of familiarity in the movement of the light that the others, occupied as they were with the prospect of such an imminent and lasting judgment, missed. We each guessed it at the same time.

Clifton grinned. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

"This is going to be good," he said. "Let's get to the Church and get a good seat for it."

            "You bet," I said, and we set out across the open cotton fields.

            When we got there, we didn't go inside. Instead, we went to the dark side of the building and found a good strong limb in an oak tree. From there we could see almost the whole inside. The windows were open, so we wouldn't miss a word. This was going to be some show all right.

By the time we got settled, the Church was half full and people were still streaming in. Preacher Hargraves was already in the pulpit, his face flushed red like it did when he got filled with the Spirit. His wife, Preacher's Gracie, was pounding the piano like it was the devil itself. She was one of the fattest women in the county and watching her bouncing around on that piano seat sent Clifton into a spell of laughing that I just knew was going to get us caught.

“Shut up,” I said. He just laughed harder.

            "Fall down and repent!" Preacher was saying, and several people took him right at his word. They fell right down in front of the pulpit. A couple of them began to shake and jerk uncontrollably.

This seemed to satisfy the preacher, so he continued.

"I have seen the light of salvation in the eastern sky." 

            "Gloree!" someone shouted from the pews.

            "Praise his name brother!" Preacher said.

            "Oh Lord, have mercy," said another, "I been a bad sinner and I ain't ready."

            "He hears you Brother.” Preacher was getting warmed up now.

“Who's next?"

            "Been a liar," said another.

            "Oh Lord I've stole from my neighbor."

            "Pray to Him brother"

            "Lord I'm a drunkard."

            I recognized that voice. Before I could get a good look, I heard another just as familiar.

            "Lord I just got done lyin' to you that my husband was sick when he was dead drunk instead,"

I could see the two of them, Mamma and Papa kneeling near the back with Uncle T.J. and Aunt Hallie who had just come in. I couldn't hear the rest of what they said on account of Clifton was laughing so hard.

            "Stop it," I said.  "They're going to come out here and get us."

            "I can't help it," said Clifton who had tears streaming down both cheeks and snot starting out of his nose he was laughing so hard. I wouldn't look at him now for every time I did he busted out all over again. Then I would get the giggles.  Inside they were heating up so that we could just hear snatches.

            "Stole a hog!"

            "Adultery!"

            "I ain't been to Church....."

            I can’t quite describe it. Clifton was limp by now. He laid back against the limb and just watched, sort of like he was daydreaming. The noises and the music reminded me of a carnival. Maybe like when you stand beside a carousel and watch the people glide by to the music. It all began to flow together.

            Then we heard another voice we recognized, this one clear and strong above the rest to the point where the other voices stopped and even Clifton sat up. 

            "I thank I kilt my daughter tonight."

            It got real quiet. There was no sound but for the insects.

            But Preacher didn’t seem to want things to calm down. He took over again before things got too quiet and addressed old man Ratliff from the pulpit.

"Ain't nobody gonna die ever again, brother." He added quickly, "Help me pray for this man!"

            Then the din started up again and we couldn't hear any single voice, just the crying, singing, praying and shouting of a hundred voices seeking salvation in that delta night. It was if the earth had opened and the sins of the earth were being poured out of that little country church.

Clifton and I just sat back in amazement, knowing that we would never see anything like this again. 

            "Is he in there?" Clifton whispered over to me.

            I didn’t say anything. I guess I didn’t have to. I guess it was just the way I was watching him and laughing.

            "You're lyin," he said, but when he looked and saw I wasn't I could tell that he was as shocked as I had been although being older than I was and all, he didn't shock as easily.

            "I'll be damned," he said.

That seemed to end it for him.  "You reckon we ought to stop them?"

            "Guess somebody ought to so's they can go home,"

We slid off our perch and walked around to the door of the Church. Actually, they had begun to wear down a little themselves, having gone at it for nearly an hour. They heard us open the door and, all at one time, looked around at us. Here stood two young boys instead of the heavenly hosts that they had expected so earnestly. You could see surprise as if it had been painted on their faces.

The noise had died away like a summer storm does when it moves off into the east.  Even Preacher's Gracie quit playing the piano. She just leaned over against it and you could hear her breathing real heavy above everything else.

The preacher was the only one who seemed to want to keep it going after we walked in.

            "You boys better get in here and pray," he said. "Ain't you seen the Lord on his way here?"

            "Where?" said Clifton from the back of the room.

            "In the sky, boy. Ain't you seed it?"

            "I seen a buzzard with a fire tied to its leg," said Clifton.  "That's all I saw."

            "A what?" said a voice in the crowd.

            "A buzzard," said Clifton. He looked toward the pulpit.

"If you can't tell the difference between a buzzard and the Lord coming, you ain't much of a preacher."

            "Oh lord.  Hush Clifton," said Aunt Hallie.

            There was this funny sound like everyone in the room drew a quick breath at once. They stared at us. I expected them to start up again with us at the center of things.

            Then I think the truth must have pierced that room for I heard Uncle T.J. "You hush woman. By God I thank the boy's right."

            The room got quiet again.

            "I thought there was something funny about it myself," said a voice I didn't recognize."

            "Are ya'll goin to listen to a couple of sneakin' kids over a man of God?" Preacher was pleading now but he knew it was over, too. Then I heard Papa.

            "I wanna go home and go to bed, Mamma."

            “Sure you do,” she said quietly. “Let’s git on back to the house.

            We moved away from the door as she and Papa walked out. She didn’t say anything to me but gave me a look that said plenty. One of the things it said was to never mention this again. I watched them disappear into the night. She had her arm around Papa and was leading him home like he was her son instead of her husband.

            Then it all began to break up.  It was pretty plain that no one wanted to talk to anyone else, didn't want to see anyone else really, just wanted to get out of there and without once raising their eyes to meet anyone else's. Preacher eased toward the back door with his Gracie behind him. Clifton and I faded back into the darkness and waited in the hope that something else of a lively nature might occur. But it was all over.

            Everyone has realized by now that it wasn't the second coming that they saw in the southern sky that night but just a coal-oil soaked rag set fire and tied to a buzzard's leg by, as it turned out, Fish Johnson who thought it was wondrously funny until they almost sent him to the penitentiary over it. We all walked home a little thoughtful, though, having been forced by the events to confront our own personal sins, or - in the case of Clifton and me - our intended sins.

            As I said at first, nobody ever mentioned it much. I never talked about it at all as long as Mama and Papa were alive. He, by the way, never touched whiskey again. Preacher disappeared the next day. He left Gracie and she taught piano lessons for a while and then disappeared herself. The harrow handle that Gehaw ran into when the shotgun went off was, we found out later, bent over even with the ground and people used to walk by the house just to look at it. She wasn't dead at all but was all right after a few days and back with the mules.

Of course, we never did see her take a bath, or even want to, really, after that night. We never mentioned it again. I never even told Clifton what her real name was, not that he would have had any interest.

            Clifton and I had more escapades but I never saw him with as much spirit. In fact, I think he sort of lowered his sights after that. It was as if he knew he had been part of something big - maybe even bigger than Hog Eye Bend itself for that matter—and it might be dangerous to try to top it.

            I've thought about Clifton a thousand times, I guess, particularly as he looked that night going home, his hands stuck in the pockets of his overalls and his feet shuffling along and the dust of the delta rising in the full moon's light behind him to form a diamond-like mist that seemed to want to hang there so it, too, could glory in the moment.  It was a grand one for him and I'm glad he had it before the Japs got him.