Earning

Off earning in Searcy today. It's cold. That's all I have to say. How cold is it? It's so cold that men's nipples are showing through their jackets.

A Peaceful Wildness

Fiction Friday: First part of an early effort based on stories I heard in my family's country grocery.

AFTER THE STORM

By Jimmie von Tungeln

           The men all laughed. Thomas Hyatt was telling about the Donaldson girl and her version of the storm. They had heard it before, but it was worth listening again just to hear Thomas tell it. He leaned back until they thought the nail keg would slide from under him, and, throwing his face into a surprised circle, mimicked a young girl.

           "And do you know what Daddy? While the house was up in the air and I could feel it a'turnin' around, I seen that mule of our'n."

           "Honey, how could you see the mule with him on the ground and you in the house and the house up in the air and it turnin' around and you probly scairt' to death anyhow?"

           Thomas stopped for effect, brought the nail keg up straight again and reduced his face from large to small again.

           "That mule wadn't on the ground Daddy. He was up in the air too, cause I see'd him right outside the winder."

           Thomas slapped his leg while the rest laughed in unison. "And they fount that mule clean over on the Darkis place, I'm tellin' you. At's five miles from Armistead and the Donaldson place ain't more'n a mile from town."

           "Next thang you be tellin' us they back plowin' with him," said Odell Rogers.

           "No sir, his plowin' days is done but he had one hell of a ride a'fore he re-tarred," said Thomas and the whole room roared.

           "At was one storm all right," said Rufus Chidester as the laughter died away. He said. "I 'spect that 1947 will be a year folks 'round here remember for a long time."

           "It took your barn didn't it?" said Odell.

           "Took my barn and the houses on both sides of mine but left mine standin'," Rufus answered.

           "I druther it took my house than my barn," said a small man named Chester Winstead. "I got ever thang I own tied up in that barn and all at's in the house is the old lady and two kids."

           "A good barn ain't easy to come by," said a voice in the group and they all nodded.

           "I reckon you heard about the Walker boy?" asked Rufus. Assuming they hadn't, he continued. "Him and some other boys was playin' in them woods over by the Bayou Bridge when it hit. He looked up and saw it comin'. There bein' no place to hide, well he just stood there watchin it comin'. It jumped over them kids somehow and kept goin'. They say they have to put him to bed now ever time a cloud comes up, it upset him so bad."

           "He's liable to end up like his Daddy," said Chester. He lit a cigarette from a wooden match and quickly took two drags. He stepped to the center of the group and kicked the latch on a large cast iron stove. When the door swung open, he flipped the burnt match inside, watched it flare for a second, and closed the door with his foot.

           "How many they counted so far?" he asked after he was back at his seat.

           "Somebody told me thirty-two," said Rufus. "At's countin' six bucks in that one house up by Ridgway Road. Shootin’ craps. That’s what I heard they were doing."

            “No,” said the Grocer, and everyone turned to hear him. He looked at Rufus. “They were at a club in that old school building on the hill. Earnest Tiggens got out of the pen a year ago and started a club for young boys on Sunday afternoon, teaching them how to box. That’s all they were doing. They found three of them across the highway, with Earnest. The rest were scattered around.”

           "Won't be no cotton choppers this summer," said Chester.

           "I don't know what people gonna do," said Odell. "They tell me it's the worst storm ever hit Arkansas."

           "I tell you what I'm fixin to do," said Thomas. "I'm fixin to wait for the government. They supposed to help people when something like this happens."

           "I didn't thank the storm hit your place," Chester said.

           "Hell, the government won't know that unless y'all tell 'em," he replied and they all laughed.

           Just then the door opened and the laughter stopped. A large figure stopped briefly in the door and nodded across the room at the group. The room fell silent except for the shuffling of feet and the scraping sound of seats being slid across the wood floor to make room for the newcomer. "John," someone finally said. "Come set."

           "Fellers," the man said as he crossed the room to sit upon an empty keg nearest the stove. The heavy silence still lay over the group and no one spoke for several minutes. "Your family all right?" Odell finally asked.

           "They's all right," the man answered. "Took ever thang I had but we got in the cellar afore it hit. They's over at Little Rock at the wife's sister's. I been stayin' in town at night. I go out there during the day. Don't hardly seem like the same place with ever thing gone." He stopped and reached over to pick a long sliver of wood from the box beside the stove. Then he began to study it intently. The room got quiet again.

           "Anybody need anything while I'm up?" The Grocer had come from behind the counter and walked over to the group. "How you, John?" he asked the newcomer.

           "All right," said John. "I need twenty feet of well-rope if you got any."

           "I got a little. Let me look out back," he said as he moved toward the front door. "You fellers keep Thomas out of the cold-drink box."

           "Brang some wood back when you come." Thomas said. "It's a gonna git cold in here fore long."

           "What you been doin' lately, Thomas?" asked the newcomer. "Last I heard you was drivin' a truck for old man Whitaker."

           Nobody spoke. Thomas leaned over from his seat and pulled a poker from beneath the stove. He didn't say anything as he pecked the latch open on the firebox door. He pulled the door open with the crook of the poker and jabbed at the glowing fire. The flames rose and he pushed the door shut slowly and placed the poker beneath the stove again.

           "That was a while back. I been doin' a little of this and a little of that."

           "Tell him what you was doin' before the storm hit," said Odell.

           "Oh, I tried preachin' for awhile down in Cleveland County. Got pretty good at it, I reckon. Liked it too. Bout the best job I ever had.” Faces in the group nodded.

           "Tell him why you quit," Odell persisted.

           "Well, to tell you the truth," Thomas stopped looked at each of the men in the group, "The son of a bitches just wouldn't pay me."

           This time the laughter was sharp and hearty. The air about the room crackled as the men slapped their knees and winked at one another. The newcomer smiled and looked toward the door. "Thomas, you won't do," he said.

           Thomas looked past the others to make sure the Grocer hadn't returned and then said knowingly, "I can tell you this. If'n you need supplies, you'd better go on in to Armistead. That man has purt near gave away his store since the storm come through."

           "That's what I heard," the man said back to him. "I don't need much." Then he looked into the front of the stove again. "Can't afford much."

           "I 'spect you tell him that, why he'll give you anything he's got. And for free. He's been doin' it for white and colored alike," Thomas replied.

           "No, I'll pay him for what I get," John said.

           "Suit yourself," Thomas said as the Grocer opened the door leading into the store with a coil of heavy rope around his shoulders. He walked to the group around the stove and paused to remember who had sent him.

           "John, I got fifteen feet left if that will help," he said.

           "I can make do," John answered. "Just put it on the counter and I'll pay you when I leave."

           "Be glad to," the Grocer said. He looked the group over. "Any you boys need anything while I'm up?"

           No one replied and he started to leave, but then paused and turned around. "Is John the only one doin' any work this week?"

           "Ain't no use workin'. Ever thing's blowed away." Odell said. "The field hands even got blowed away. They houses is gone and they'll be headed for Detroit, follerin' the others. How's anybody gonna farm this year?"

           "I remember when people did their own farmin'," the Grocer said. "That's how I got this store."

           Thomas turned around to face him. "But now you done give it all away and you ought to be sittin' right down here with us."

           "Well I might as well at that. But if I set down with y'all, I might not ever get back up," he said and walked toward his perch.

           "Sounds like he might be gonna take up preachin' next," said Thomas and the men all laughed.

           The sounds died and the room turned quiet. Thomas told another story but there was no depth, no substance, this time and the men simply nodded. A languid peace settled upon the room. The only sound was the hum of the wood stove as the logs roared fiercely. Finally, Odell asked, "What was it like when you seen it coming, John?"

           John studied the stove for a minute and starting once to speak, waited until all eyes had circled the room and rested on him. "There's some things boys," he said, and paused again. "Some things that you can't make words fit the tellin'."

           A couple of the men nodded and he contiued. "I seen it a ways off and had time to git the family started to the cellar. They run down and before I went, I had a chance to look for myself. It was funny like. Sort of a peaceful wildness, far off like it was, and not seeming to move much at all, just whipping back and forth kinda soft like you was sweeping the yard with a willow limb."

           "How long did you watch it?" asked Odell.

           "Oh, not long. I seen it was getting closer and figgerd that there was gonna be hell to pay, and I closed the cellar door."
           "Speakin' of hell to pay, look comin' yonder," said Thomas..
(To be continued.)

Dreams of dry days ...

Looks as if they will start again soon, the “Rainsoons” I mean. The pattern stays the same. Each morning when I arise, the first thing I do is breathe on a hand-held mirror to see if I am still alive. Assuming I am, I then proceed to take whatever medication I’m on and brew a pot of coffee.

At the computer with “first cup,” I turn straight away to the weather. I don’t have to really. I can already tell that it is raining outside. I look at the screen anyway. I see what should be wonderful news. This day it will stop raining and there will be five or more days with a zero … yes … zero chance of rain. “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” I chortle in my joy.

I begin making plans. Tomorrow, it will still be muddy, no use trying to do outside work. I’ll pick guitar.

Next day after tomorrow, it will still be muddy. Let’s read and pick the banjo.

Next day, the ground will be squishy, I’ll plan to stare at the computer while my roommate yells at the TV over some man she says is “nutso.” If I get tired of staring at the computer, I'll stare at my cell phone.

Ah, the fifth day of dry weather I’ll go outside and alter the world for the better.

Next morning, I arise full of vim and vigor and proceed through my routine. I add a blood-pressure check to make sure I’ll be physically fit to endure the trials ahead. Might have to add another day of house rest.

No worry. As soon as I see the computer screen lights up, I get ready to chortle.

What?

Oh no. Where only yesterday, there had been five days of dry weather forecast. Little zeros had marched across the screen. Now, in their place are these little symbols representing percentages. They range from 99.91 per day to 99.98. What? Has the Weather Person been prescribed Medical Marijuana? Am I living in a dream world? What’s that noise?

I know what that noise is. I’ve been hearing it most days since last August. I stumble into the living room and engage the television. OMG! There’s the odd-looking face of that man my roommate screams at all day long. He’s telling me that climate change is a hoax, but if not, it’s Hillary Clinton’s fault. He’s real pissed about it. Says that his opponents are causing it to rain on his people, trying to dilute their brain cells. The crowd goes berserk. He says something about a woodpile but I can’t tell because of the crowd noise, which gets louder. He posts a huge smirking smile, nods his head, then moves it up and down while pursing his lips, like a “bobble-head” doll. Reassuring he ain’t. His face is flashing red then orange, like a neon sign advertising soft drinks and pizza. He definitely needs some form of therapy.

That reminds me. I sure hope those banjo strings I ordered come today.  

Yep. That's me.

Sunrise With Schubert: February 20, 2018

Nothing happens in moderation anymore. Even the slightest holiday evokes orgiastic waves of guilt-inducing commercials. Spend, they command. Spend or you aren’t a good person. Spend on whomever we honor this week. Spend before it’s too late and you’re considered a bad person. That won't make America great again.

Soon, there may be a “Neighbor’s Day,” on which we are urged to buy a Rolex watch for the man whose dog craps in your yard and a string of pearls for his gossipy wife.

Now it’s the weather. Anyone by now who doesn’t believe the weather patterns are changing has been spending too much time on social media, twittering about hell knows what.

As I write this, we await another monsoon season. I thought I had seen the last of those years ago. But noooo. The experts tell us it’s going to rain each day for the foreseeable future and the ground here is still engorged from the last of Mother Nature’s frivolous binges.

Our farm, where we spend a lot of time caring for a loved one, rests on sixty feet or more of pure clay soil. In fact, the owners of bygone days used to have a brickyard here, operated by slaves, of course. Legend has it that the Federals burned said brickyard and took the slaves and other livestock because the owners were suspected of sheltering the infamous Confederate, guerrilla, spy, and cross-dresser,  “Doc” Rayburn.

But I digress, probably from an unconscious urge to get my mind off the coming deluge. The point I had started circling my tattered wagon-train of a mind around concerned the clay soil. Left to its on predilections, clay makes a suitable, if strong-willed surface upon which to drive vehicles. It’s not much for row-crops, a feature that accounts for the past preference for dairy farming in these parts. Clay soil is just clay soil. It harbors no desire for greater grandeur.

Now, however, when such clay soil is subjected to freezing, and, if you remember, we had a “cold-weather monsoon” back in January, its mindset changes and it wills itself into a gelatinous substance of undisguised ill-will. Add a little, or lot in some cases, of rain and it’s like driving on a field of Jell-O.

That’s what we have to look forward to, and why I’m not overflowing with the “milk of human kindness" this morning. In fact, I think I’ll find me a dog (I won’t have far to look) and just kick the hell out of it.

Goodbye, and bite me.

Oh, and have a blessed day.

Yeah. You'll be in my thoughts and prayers all right.

Sailing To Oblivium: July 18, 2017

They call them “the dog days of summer.” I always wondered why. The dogs don’t seem to like them anymore than I do. Interspecies commonality?

Down here in the south, the heat is partnered with the humidity, doubling the misery. A walk to the garden and back makes your shirt wet. Further effort than that can make you curse your parents for birthing you in this location.

On the worst of days, you don’t even see any mad dogs or Englishmen out and about.

The old folks used to describe it in typical earthy phrases like “It’s hotter than hell’s pepper patch.”

A shipmate from Southern Missouri used the analogy of a pregnant prostitute in church, but I would never stoop so low as to repeat it. Those wild and obscene days ended long ago. Sort of.

I just say that it’s hotter than Donald Trump at a “truth or dare” party.

Why do we call them “dog days?” A trip to a favorite website, Wonderopolis, enlightens.

The ancient Romans called the hottest, most humid days of summer “diēs caniculārēs" or “dog days." The name came about because they associated the hottest days of summer with the star Sirius. Sirius was known as the “Dog Star" because it was the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major (Large Dog). Sirius also happens to be the brightest star in the night sky.

Sirius is so bright that the ancient Romans thought it radiated extra heat toward Earth. During the summer, when Sirius rises and sets with the Sun, they thought Sirius added heat to the Sun's heat to cause hotter summer temperatures.

Those old Romans were a real hoot, weren’t they?

When exactly are dog days? The Old Farmer's Almanac lists the traditional timing as being July 3 until August 11. Since any questioning of the efficacy of that revered source would threaten my marriage, we’ll accept it. Thus, we are smack dab in the middle of them.

I do know one thing. Having raised a couple of fine rows of corn in our garden, I decided, post-harvest, to chop down the stalks and feed them to a friend’s cows. Took me about an hour. As I finished, without a dry thread of clothing on me, I couldn’t help but thinking about the book Twelve Years a Slave.

In it, Solomon Northup, a free black man from upstate New York, is abducted and sold into slavery. He tells about being forced to along with other slaves, to cut sugar cane from daylight to dark on a Louisiana plantation. I try but I can’t imagine it.

I just hope that our plan to “make America great again,” doesn’t refer to those dog days of a different type.

I don't know. They seem happy enough.

Cold

Can weather conditions induce memories? Oh yes. The chilly weather of the past week incited a flood of remembrances of things past to course through my mind. None, however, topped my recalling of the winter of 1980. Here’s what happened.

I had gotten into a fitness program at the Downtown YMCA in Little Rock, AR in 1975. Excessive body fat and high blood pressure limited me to one waddle followed by one walk nine times around a 30-laps per mile indoor track. I followed the program, and by 1979 I was up to jogging several miles a day. Then, a new neighbor moved next door. As fate would have it, we hit it off and began running together.

That’s when it happened.

One morning, from out of the blue, he said, “The Arkansas Marathon in Booneville is March First, why don’t we train and run it?”

“Okay,” I said, thinking more about negotiation the coming hill than forming any soundly logical reply. But train we did, getting up to nearly ten miles a day as the day approached. Then we did a couple of 20-mile Sundays. Things seemed good.

The day before the race, a winter storm moved in and two of the TV stations predicted a blanket of snow and freezing temps overnight. The third station allowed a slight possibility of simply freezing weather. We decided to take I-40 to Little Rock and spend the night in Russellville, AR. That way, if the snow stayed away, we could cross the river and make Booneville by race time. Otherwise, we trusted the interstate to get us home. Okay. We kissed our wives goodbye. No, we didn’t. I made that part up. We actually tried one last time to convince them we weren’t totally crazy, but long-held beliefs aren’t easily displaced, particularly with counter-evidence staring them in the face.

We just left them shaking their heads.

As a precaution, we stopped at a big-box and purchased headgear, gloves, and pantyhose. Yes, pantyhose, not uncommon for runners in those more innocent times. He bought the regular kind. I bought “Big Momma” heavyweights. Later, in the motel, we tried them on. In the middle of that exercise, I suddenly imagined a police raid and statewide headlines announcing that two prominent Little Rock professionals (he was at least) had been apprehended in a central Arkansas motel up to some big-time mischief.

Well, to put a point on it, we made the race. The temperature was 15 degrees above zero and the wind was strong enough to shred the edges of flags along the route. By midway, when the wind was at our backs, I felt good. By this time, my friend had left me behind and I was in the company of another running pal, the late John Woodruff, then a reporter for the Arkansas Gazette. We laughed, joked, and observed that we had met the marathon standard that one should feel pretty strong at the ten-mile mark. We met the man who had led me into the fun already coming back and he looked good as well, except for a couple of runs in his pantyhose.

Then we started back. I can only describe that portion of the race as having an automatic cannon firing ice into you at each step. Runners with beards passed us with them totally encased in ice, looking more like Yeti than humans. Totally exhausted, I finally settled on running to one light pole and waddling to the next. I cursed my friend, the YMCA, Bill Rogers, the day I was born, and fate in general.

After a century or so, I heard the sound of a loud speaker. It came from the finish line in downtown Booneville. Suddenly, I was beautiful again. Pulling my face into a smile required the very last of my strength, but I, in my Big Mommas, crossed the finish line to the applause of the crowd of maybe 20 that were still there. My time? Four hours and six minutes. I still have the proof if anyone should disbelieve me.

I never ran another. There are some bucket list things that don’t bear repeating.

I've seen lots of down towns, but
not one ever looked better than this.