Paths

There’s a scene from Federico Fellini's (underrated in my opinion) Italian film, La Dolce Vita—"The Sweet Life"—in which the restless reporter Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni) is called to the home of his new friend Steiner. To Marcello, Steiner represents and offers an admirable life of intellectual pursuit away from the insane and immoral world chased by Marcello and other members of the paparazzi. The reason for being called to Steiner’s home is not admirable, though. The man has killed himself and his two children whom he had kissed goodnight in the same bed in a previous scene. Marcello must identify the bodies.

A somewhat similar theme appears in another highly underrated film, Educating Rita, a 1983 British offering based on a stage comedy by British playwright Willy Russell. In it, the heroine, trying desperately to escape a dreary, mundane life, rooms with a vivacious roommate who seems to love and enjoy life and Gustav Mahler in equal and enthusiastic proportions. Yes, of course Rita returns home one day to find that her friend, the joyous lover of life, has killed herself.

Why bring this up on an otherwise cheerful morning? It’s just that I was thinking of people I’ve know who seem to have led impeccable lives. Mine, meantime, has been a constant struggle against addictions, rocky roads, underachievement, wastrel-leanings, and bad choices (except in marriage, profession, and friends). Somehow, I overcame the allure of sin’s bright colors and landed safely on a stable shore. Still, I wonder why I didn’t follow the leads of my impeccable friends and save a lot of time and heartbreak.

Then I think of these two favorite films and the epiphany comes. We just never know, do we, what demons rest in the souls of those about us? It wasn’t too many years ago that the top-ranking admiral of my beloved United States Navy committed suicide when enemies reported a minor infraction among the ribbons on his chest. He had risen from Seaman Recruit in a special program the Navy once had whereby promising enlisted personnel were selected for education and a commission. It seems that, no matter what his personal achievements accomplished, the Annapolis crowd never let him forget his humble origins.

We only have to look at the morning headlines to realize that life forms no straight path to either virtue or success. A brilliant but disturbed friend of mine described it thusly: “When you’re born, they give you a bucket. As you go through life, they fill it with … .” I won’t say with what he thought they filled it, but you get the picture. The last words I ever heard him say was that he was in a Navy “nut-ward” and had “given my bucket back to them.”

As the Bard of Avon once said, "Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall." It’s scary, but, on the other hand, perhaps there is someone out there with a very heavy bucket who is ready to save us from all this. If so, it’s best that we not form instantaneous decisions about them.

Who knows?

Decisions

As our public schools crumble, our planet fries, our poor sleep on the streets, our children are trained (once again) to hide beneath their school desks, and our country becomes increasingly aligned with the most wicked institutions of the planet, do we pause to wonder? Why do those with the most unworthy intents possess the most wealth to carry out those intents. Why are the truly righteous silent? Why do the godly perish while the wicked run free?

We have, over the years, printed untold tons of literature aimed at answering the simple question of why bad things happen to good people. Each time we bury someone who died of cancer too early in life, or see the newsreel shot of a casket bearing a young child slaughtered at her school, or witness an innocent neighborhood destroyed by drugs or a tornado, we ask why a merciful deity allowed it.

“His ways ain’t our ways,” a film character answers. The Galilean phrased it more eloquently in the Gospel of Matthew 5:45 as the spoke it from the sermon on the Mount.

“[Be] the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” (KJV)

Well there you have it. A city in Texas receives more than 40 inches of rain while people die of thirst and hunger in Asia. “His ways ain’t our ways,” say those from dry, clean rooms on full stomachs. What then, was the Galilean doing from that immortal spot in Judea? Was he just fooling with us? His ways, after all, ain’t our ways, are they? Don’t we identify more with the voice from Proverbs 11:10, where the elders say, “When it goeth well with the righteous, the city rejoiceth; and when the wicked perish, there is shouting?”

Sometimes, these days, all we have to do is turn on the TV and we can watch portions of America shouting with unrestrained joy when things go well with the wicked while the righteous, along with our beloved planet, face perishing.

Maybe the Galilean wasn’t simply saying, “his ways ain’t our ways.” Perhaps the most famous sermon ever uttered was all about decisions.

Yes, it might have been about making up our minds to do right. There are what we tend to call “decision points” all through the sermon. Some are transcendent in their pure beauty, like when he tells is who is blessed. Some make us uneasy, like the expanded definition of adultery, broadened to include our very thoughts. (So long, Scarlett.) Some are fairly simple: “That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.” (5:20) Yes, it would be nigh onto impossible not to exceed the righteousness of a Joel Osteen, wouldn’t it?

It goes on and on, this sermon, exhorting us at each step to face and make decisions some of which include, in equal portions, discomfort and righteousness. Perhaps we might better understand if we included one last phrase. How about the following?

“His ways ain’t easy, are they?”

“The day when rain falls is as great

 as he day on which heaven and

earth were created” – The Talmud

Shame, where is thy sting?

Been thinking about shame lately. Shame? The young folks ask us what we mean. For them: as a noun it is that painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior. Yeah, I know we use every asset available to protect you from it. But, the old folks used to say things like “Her face turned red with pure shame.” It was a major method of controlling behavior. Yes, really.

As a verb, the word was used as an action to make someone feel bad (ashamed) about some untoward action. “She shamed him right out of acting like that.”

Yes, really. I know we don’t employ it much anymore. Today, when someone says or does something with which we disagree, there is a fairly well-defined process. First, we demean, criticize, curse, or bear false witness against them. If that doesn’t work, we file legal action. That failing, we kill them, either socially, financially, figuratively, or actually.

My Sainted Mother had a more effective, by far, process. She could scald the anger right off you with a simple, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I remember once making an improper hand gesture toward my sister in a public place. Not being one to suffer in silence, she reported the incident to Sainted Mother.

SM didn’t try to be my pal about. She didn’t psychoanalyze my action. She didn’t put her arm around me and tell me that we all make mistakes. She didn’t try to explain logically why an alternate action might have been more appropriate. She didn’t even try to protect my self-esteem.

No, she said, “What would you think if some bully on schoolyard made that gesture to me?”

When my chin hit my chest, she followed with, “If you don’t show respect for your sister, who do you expect will?”

That did the trick.

I maintain that we might introduce shame into our national lexicon. What if, when a former reality TV star publicly ridiculed a person born with physical differences, instead of electing the bully president of the United States of America, we had figuratively hung ribbons of shame around this shoulder and made him walk through the village with his chin on his chest?

It’s interesting to think about it. I thought about a few days ago when I had an interesting conversation with a progressive police chief in one of our Arkansas cities. We were talking about the use of physical devices to control traffic, things like speed bumps and four-way stops. We both agreed that they suck at speed control.

“Know what works for us better than anything?” he asked.

I didn’t.

“Those simple signs that tell you what the speed limit its on the bottom and what speed you are driving at on top. Works better than anything I’ve found.”

Is that an example of the effect of shame caused by instantaneous feedback? I think so.

Maybe, just maybe, the owners of the social-media outlet “Twitter,” ought to attach “ribbons of shame” to egregious postings.

Couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Storms

Fiction Friday: Last week we met a group of men gathered around a wood stove in a country grocery in 1947. It was rural Arkansas and a tragic tornado had just ravaged their part of the county. Their reveries stopped when one said, "Speaking of hell to pay, look coming yonder." And …

(Apologies for some language of time, place, and people.)

______

The men all turned in time to see a woman burst through the door of the store. She stopped just inside the door, and turned toward the men, saying nothing. She eyed each one. When none of them spoke, she turned and walked to the counter.

           "Good morning, Miss Sheila," the Grocer said.

           "Ricky needs some stuff," she said, and slapped a piece of notebook paper down hard on the counter.

           "How's Arthur doing?" the Grocer asked.

           "He died last night," Sheila replied. "You got all this stuff?"

           "Would you tell Ricky that we're certainly sorry to hear that," he said.

           "You can tell him yourself. He'll be by after awhile," she said. "You got all this stuff?"

           "I'll just have to see, Miss Sheila," the Grocer said. "The storm disrupted all the supplies and I'm trying to ration out so everybody can get what they need 'til things get back to normal."

           "What everybody else needs ain't my concern," she said. "Can you fill this order or not?"

           "Miss Sheila, I'll just have to see. Some of the stuff's in the storeroom," he said.

           "I'll be back in a little while," she said, spinning around and strode out of the store in long strides.

           "That gal's as cordial as she ever was, ain't she?" said Rufus.

           "I guess if you was as rich as she is, you wouldn't worry about being cordial either," said Odell.

           "Rich? She ain't rich," said Rufus. "She married the poor Maleson boy, not the rich one." He searched for words. "She married the sorry one."

           Thomas Hyatt leaned forward on his nail keg. "Don't guess you've heard the news, have you, Rufus?"

           "What news?"

           Thomas leaned back. "You heard her say that oldest Maleson boy died last night, didn't you?"

           "Yes," said Rufus, "but what's that got to do with Sheila and Ricky?"

           "A whole lot," said Thomas. "Lawyer Wingate explained it to me. See, Arthur and Mr. Dunk Forrestor's daughter was farming that fifteen hunderd acres down off Frenchman's Bayou. They say that's the best fifteen-hunderd acre farm in the State of Arkansas."

           "Yeah, but that belonged to Ole Man Dunk. Arthur was just farming that for him."

           "Don't you see though," said Thomas, "Ole Man Dunk only had that one daughter. He was out at Arthur's house when the storm hit. It kilt him right off. The daughter lived for two days. And Old Man Dunk never trusted lawyers enough to have a will made out."

           "So," said Rufus, "what does that mean?"

           "Well that means she inherited everthing the Ole Man had."

           "Well, what's that got to do with Sheila," said Rufus impatiently.

           "Well, when she died, Arthur lived for, what now..., three more days?"

           "And?" said Rufus.

           "That means that Arthur inherited everything Ole Man Dunk's daughter owned."

           "So what are you trying to tell me?" said Rufus.

           "I'm trying to tell you," said Thomas, "that when Arthur Maleson died, Ricky inherited everything he owned. Ricky and Sheila have that fifteen hunderd acre farm now, plus everything that Ole Man Dunk had," he paused. "And he had a lot."

           "What about Mr. Dunk's brothers and sisters? They helped him buy his first farm before he ever got rich."

           "They got about the same claim to it that you and I have," said Thomas. “Lawyer told me yesterday that if Arthur died, Ricky was going to be one rich man.”

           No one spoke for several minutes. Finally Odell spoke, as much to himself, as to anyone in the room, "Things change pretty fast after a storm, don't they?"

           "I tell you whut," said Thomas, "If I was to inherit that farm, I'd sell it and buy me a freight truck, and I'd haul freight from here to California and back."

           "Well, Tom, if you inherited that farm, you could buy a whole fleet of trucks," said Rufus. "And you could hire people to haul for you."

           "And them steal half of everything they haul?" said Thomas. "No thanks. I'd just buy me one and drive it myself."

           "Well, you'd know about that sort of thing," said John. Then he asked, "Have any of you'all seen what happened to Arthur Maleson's house when the tornado hit?"

           No one spoke but Odell. "No, I ain't been hardly past Armistead since it happened, have you?"

           "Boys," said John, "I tell you, it turned that house completely upside down, in one piece, and set it out in the middle of that Bayou. Hit's a wonder Arthur lived as long as he did."

           The Grocer walked by to retrieve a hoe from several that hung on the wall.

           "Don't bother giving it away to Ricky and Sheila," said Thomas. "They got plenty of money now."

           "Maybe they'll just pick up what you owe me too, Thomas," said the Grocer, walking back to the counter.

           "I reckon they just might," said Thomas. "I was always right fond of Miss Sheila."            The men laughed. The room was quite for a minute, then John said, "That was a shame about poor Arthur. He was a fine man."

           "Yeah," said Odell. "He wadn't but about nineteen when his momma and daddy died. They left him and Ricky by theyselves."

           "He shore had his share of trouble raising Ricky," said Rufus.

           Thomas leaned forward again. "They tell me that he was about to fire Ricky, right before the storm hit."

           "What for?" said John.

           "Being so mean to the coloreds, is what I heard," said Thomas. "He made old Roedock Tiggens so mad he quit, and old Roedock 's the best worker in Armistead County."

           "Yeah, Ricky's a bad 'un, all right," said John.

           "No," said Thomas, "he was a bad 'un. He's a rich 'un now. He can do whatever he wants to, and ain't nobody gonna say nothing about it."

           "Ain't that for shore," said John.

           The mood that settled on the group now was different. Perhaps they seemed expectant. Or maybe with the new knowledge there was a new importance. The discussion itself took on loftier aspects.

           "Boys it ain't often in a man's life that he gets to see something like what that storm done," Rufus observed.

           "We was a real part of history all right," said Thomas.

           "Hell I didn't even think you were in the county when it happened," said Odell.

           "I was just as much a part of it as anybody," said Thomas. "I was just a little late getting on the scene."

           The men all laughed.

           While they were laughing, Ricky Maleson walked in.

           None of the men spoke. When they had noticed who it was, each turned his eye on the stove in their center and said nothing. Ricky seemed scarcely to notice them and walked to the grocery counter. Nodding to the Grocer, he asked if Sheila had been in.

           "Just a few minutes ago Ricky," the Grocer answered, then added "We're all mighty sorry to hear about Arthur."

           "We appreciate your prayers," Ricky said and then seemed to notice the group of men for the first time.

           "How you boys doin'?"

           Odell answered for the group. "Depends on who you're asking. Some of us better that others. John here lost just about everthing he...."

           "Any of ya'll want work?" Ricky interrupted.

           None of the men spoke. Thomas reached for the poker and leaned forward to open the door of the stove. He moved slowly, deliberately, as he first studied the progress of the fire and then began, slowly, to rake the poker across the top of the burning coals. The others watched him intently.

           "We need some more wood," he said after a few strokes, and began to rise.

           "Wait just a minute," Ricky said, "I asked if any of you men wanted work."

           Thomas stopped after rising and looked at the other men. Each in turn looked and Thomas and then cast their eyes on the floor directly on the floor in front of the stove. He sensed that he had been trapped, elected.

           "What kind of work?" he finally asked.

           "Supervising work" Ricky said. He walked slowly to the group of men until he stood near, not in, the center of the circle and stopped. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes and a piece of folded paper. The men could see that the paper was rich and formal, with tightly spaced lines of type. Folded into a shape the size of the cigarette package, it was clear white on one side and a grimy brown on the other where it had been in contact with Rick's shirt.

           Ricky left the paper folded and held it in one hand as if it were folded money while he shook a cigarette from the pack with the other hand. He placed the pack in his pocket at looked at the men. After a few seconds, Thomas handed him a match and Ricky nodded. He looked at the fire which was hissing and roaring hot. He walked farther into the circle and placed the match against the stove. It immediately popped as the head exploded into a small flame. Ricky watched the match briefly and then raised it to light his cigarette.

           He drew from the cigarette, looked toward the ceiling, exhaled and then looked back at the men. "I come into some money boys." He held the folded piece of paper high in his hand as if it were holy. "Big money."

           The men stared at the paper, their eyes bouncing almost in unison as Ricky shook it for emphasis. No one spoke until the Grocer asked, from behind his counter, "You talking about Mr. Dunk's money?"

           Ricky wheeled. "It ain't old man Dunk's money no more. It's mine now! If'n you don't believe me, read this," he said as he waived the paper toward the Grocer.

           "It may belong to you now, but it's still Mr. Dunk's money," the Grocer said, locking Rick's eyes with his own.

           "I tell you it's mine," Ricky shouted, almost shrieking. "It was Arthur's and when he died it wasn't his'n no more. It's mine." You read what Oscar Wingate, Attorney at Law, says about it." He was unfolding the paper.

           "Why Ricky," Odell said, "We already know about it. Hit's a bad wind that don't blow somebody some good."

           "Let me see it," Thomas asked. "I done told them about it, but I'd like to see what Lawyer Wingate said, exactly."

           Ricky turned and handed Thomas the letter. He opened it and read slowly as the others looked at the one soiled rectangle in the back of the paper. As his eyes reached the bottom of the page he spoke softly. "And if the facts are as you stated, it is my opinion that you would inherit the entire estate of Arthur Maleson in the event of his death, there being no will or other legal claim upon the property. This would, as far as the facts are ...," Thomas stopped.

           "Ascertainable," said Ricky.

           "Ask-er-taintable," Thomas continued, "...include the estate of the late Dunk Forrestor which passed to his daughter, Ellen Forrestor Maleson upon his death and which subsequently passed to her husband, Arthur Maleson, upon her death."

           Thomas folded the paper gently into its original shape and handed it to Ricky. The small circle where the men sat was hot now as the fire reached its peak and the air seemed dark and heavy. Thomas leaned back on his keg so he could watch Rick's face.

           "You mentioned work," he said. "What would a man supervise, say he was intersted?"

           "Why blacks of course," said Ricky. "White men supervisin' niggers. That's the way it's always been, ain't it."

           "I don't know... I've been supervised an awful lot in my day and I ain't no nigger," said Thomas and the men all laughed.

           Ricky glared and the laughter stopped. "This ain't funny," he said. "Ever since the war ended, more and more of them are movin' north. Now a bunch of them around here got killed. They's want'in to build plants around here now for the whites to work in. What's it all gonna mean to us farmers?"

           The men looked at Thomas who looked at the Grocer who merely sat watching intently. Thomas looked back at the men who turned to Ricky.

           "I'll tell you what it means," he said. "It means we all gonna be out chop'n cotton right along side what hands is left."

           "What's wrong with that?" asked the Grocer. "That's what we did in the old days...that's what Mr. Dunk did."

           Ricky ignored him and spoke to the men again. "I thought about this all durin' the war," he said. "It was good that I stayed stateside. Good for us all."

           "How's that," asked the Grocer. "I thought what we did in France and Germany was good for us all."

           "Because I had time to think," said Ricky. "I spent the whole war thinking about how I would run things if'n I had money and now, by God, I got the money."

           "How's money gonna keep us in field hands if there ain't no field hands?" Thomas had leaned forward now and was watching Ricky intently.

           "Organization." Ricky said.

           "Organization?"

           "Organization. We'll have a cooperative that can hire the hands that are available and you men can be the supervisors. We'll move them from farm to farm and you keep them busy. You know how field hands is."

           "Dumb and lazy?" Odell asked.

           "Hell no, they's smart enough to get by without working a lick if'n somebody don't make ‘em."

           "And Lord knows they work hard when somebody like you is around to make them, don't they," said the Grocer.

           "I got my ways," Ricky said. "You keep a boot up one’s hind end and they'll work plenty hard for you."

           "Until they get enough and move up north," said the Grocer. "Ain't that right?"

           "I got an answer to that problem that might interest you," said Ricky. He turned to look at the Grocer and then turned back to look at the men again.

           "If we handle it right, we can see that they stay too far in debt to move anywhere."

           "How's that?" One of the men asked.

           "We own the stores and someday the bank too," Ricky said. "As long as they have to buy from us, we can keep them as far in debt as we want."

           The men looked embarrassed. Not a one of them would look at the Grocer who sat watching Ricky's back. Outside the sun moved toward the horizon and the store was becoming darker. The stove still burned with a hum, the only sound except for a periodic creak as one of the men would shift his weight. Each made an attempt to appear thoughtful. Each looked more discomfited as the effort increased. Ricky waited and the Grocer smiled. He eased into a more comfortable position with his back resting against a shelf stacked with canned goods. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a partial block of tobacco. From another pocket he pulled a knife, opened it, cut a cube from the block and, holding it between his thumb and the blade of the knife, placed it in his mouth. To the men, who could see him behind Ricky, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

           "I need to know who I can count on," Ricky said. "Let me know today so I can start my list. Overseers - you'll all be overseers." He turned to the Grocer stared for a second as if the Grocer might have something to add. "Sheila will be back for them supplies," he said and then he turned and walked to the door. Turning around, he looked once more to the group of men. None of them spoke and he nodded his head as if he were counting them. He opened the door and left the store.

           "Life's funny, ain't it?," Thomas said. He waited for an answer but nobody spoke. Heads turned slightly toward the Grocer and watched for a reponse. He chewed slowly and stared back. A smile appeared briefly. Still saying nothing, he walked from behind the counter, crossed the length of the store, walked outside and spat. Stopping to look both ways along the country road, he left the men alone.

           "He ain't for it, I can tell," said Rufus. "I watched him the whole time Ricky was talking and I could tell he wasn't going for it."

           "Why should he?" Thomas asked. "Ain't nothin' in it for him except competition. Man that's rich already could drive another man out of business if'n he wanted to."

           Otis spoke next. "Bet Ricky would be just the kind to want to, don't you reckon?"

           "Ricky's rich now. He sets his own rules," said Thomas.

           Outside the afternoon sun began easing toward nightfall. Inside, the group of men sat quietly. There was a heaviness in the room now, as though a peace had settled in but at the cost of draining the vitality from the room. The interlude was not unpleasant and the men stared silently at the stove in the center of their circle. Every so often one would raise a cigarette to his lips and pull smoke slowly into his lungs. Expelling silently, he would seem to drift, as though his mind and body were so linked that the floating away of one would pull the other. It was the sort of moment that would usually produce a joke from Thomas, but this time nothing came forth. This time the mood was altered by the Grocer who pushed the door open with a crash and strode into the store with long, heavy steps.

           "Here comes your new princess," he said.

           "I got to be goin........ Thomas began. It was too late. The truck was already squealing to a stop in front of the store. The entire group froze as the door opened and, seconds later, slammed shut. They couldn't see but felt, sensed, Sheila approaching. The only person moving was the Grocer. He busied himself behind his counter, safe, it seemed to the others, from the approaching storm.

           The door burst open and Sheila was in the store.

           "I Come for the supplies," she said. "You got them ready?" Looking at the group, she nodded. "One of you boys help me load this stuff."

           "Sure, Sheila," John said, starting to rise.

           "Here," Sheila said, reaching for one the sacks that the Grocer had stacked waiting. Suddenly she stopped. Still holding the sack, she turned to the Grocer. "Did you have everything?"

"Not quite," the Grocer said, reaching for the list she had left. "Some of these things I'm rationing so we don't run out. They's still folks counting on me for supplies until the deliveries are on a regular schedule again. You come back in a couple of days and I can finish you up."

           "I told you, by God, that I wasn't intersted in other people."

           "You may not be, but I am."

           Thomas saw it coming first and had time to duck. The others stood stupefied as the sack of groceries flew toward them. Cans, wrappings of meat and assorted packages flew into their midst, bouncing of the stove, the walls, the floor and, in the case of Rufus Thomas who was hit smack in the face with a can of peaches, the men themselves. The contents of the sack spun, crashed, slid, bounced and careened in all directions as the group scattered in a direction for each participant.

           "Goddam you! Didn't you talk to my husband," she shrieked at the Grocer.

           He said nothing. He waited for a long time as Sheila's breath came in heaves, her face red with anger home of not being obeyed. The Grocer seemed to wait, making sure that there was not more. Then rising, he began to walk around the counter. He moved slowly, as a man finishing the last tasks of a long day. Crossing in front of Sheila, he began to retrieve the contents of the sack, now scattered around the room.

           Sheila watched him without seeming yet to comprehend that it was over. "I'll give you one more chance," she ventured. "Give me what I want and I'll be gone." Then she added - "I won't say anything to Ricky."

           The Grocer ignored her and continued to place objects in a sack. Sheila watched him, unbelieving. They watched her as she became calmer. She took a breath and turned to the men. "I guess it's over here." She turned to the men and stiffened slightly. "Ricky wants your answer."

           The men stared back. Not one of them spoke. Gradually they turned to the Grocer who was standing just behind them. He looked at them one by one and each, in turn, lowered his eyes. The grocer then looked past them at Sheila.

           "Tell him that he's won," he said. "And that the old days is done fer."

           "I thought so," said Sheila. Then she turned and left the store.

           Somewhere near the group a fly buzzed. Smoke from the cigarettes was thick and heavy in the room. The Grocer finished gathering his produce and laid the crumpled bag on the counter. He circled the counter and returned to his seat behind it. Still chewing the cut of tobacco, he listened as the men continued talking. They stopped after a minute and Thomas said to the Grocer. "You know this may be the end for you."

           "I reckon," he said.

           "Ain't you worried?"

           "I may move up north myself."

           "They have storms up there too, I guess." Rufus offered.

           "There'll always be storms," said the Grocer and he began to place the groceries back onto the shelves.

           "Hit was some storm all right," said Thomas. "You going back home John?"

           "I reckon. Ain't much left." He looked into the stove. "Do you want to know what the oddest thing was?"

           "What?" Rufus asked the question and the other men leaned forward.

           "When I come out of the storm cellar," he began. "I had the family stay put while I took a look around. I could see right off that it was all gone. Purty much so, anyway." He stopped. The men waited.

           "I walked over to where the house stood. Hit was gone. So was the barn. Pens, cribs, everthing." He stopped again. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it before he spoke

again.

           "I walked over toward where the big oak tree in our yard used to be and then I noticed."

           The men watched with total silence. He puffed on the cigarette again.

           "The kids had been playing under that tree. They were playin' with mud pies. Had them made up in some fruit jar lids on an old board they had propped up on some concrete blocks. Them lids was laying there like nothing ever happened. Still had the little mud pies on them. Just laying there. Hadn't even been moved by the whole storm. That was all that was left. No house. No barn. Just those little jar lids layin' there like the kids would be back any time. I reached down and flipped one with my finger. Just a flip and I knocked it off the board but the storm didn't touch it."

           He reached forward and put the cigarette out on the hearth of the stove.

           “Just seemed funny," he said. "That's all."

           "Hell John," Thomas said. "Storms is like women... you figure them out and you'll be the rich one.”

           The men all laughed.

Sweet Gifts of Recall

The Ken Burns documentary Country Music was great again last evening. I noticed a couple of tidbits. In one segment concerning Patsy Cline, there was a brief snap of a recording session and down in the left corner sat Hank Garland. Yes, the legendary Hank Garland. He was a star session guitarist turned soloist who was also setting the jazz world on fire just as a tragic automobile accident disabled and silenced him Here’s one of few clips of him, here playing a song developed from a fingering exercise that he turned into “Sugarfoot Rag,” earning him the nickname Hank “Sugarfoot” Garland. Somewhere along the line, they put words to it and Red Foley turned it into a big hit.

Next, here’s a few miscellaneous scenes, including a session with a Patsy Cline. Finally a recording featuring some shots of him as an older man. They say that, late in life and years after his accident, he could play some once more. Check out Jazz Winds in a New Direction for an album that was setting the music world afire in 1961 just as his music stopped.

The other quick segment mentioned Merle Travis. I’m sure they’ll return to him. If they don’t, the whole effort will suffer. They mentioned that he was a West Coast session player. What they they didn’t mention was his stint with Gene Autry. Here’s one of my favorite bits as Merle lights up an old standard, Dixie Cannonball, (usually performed at a maddeningly slow tempo). Not here though.

You might gather that the show is causing me to remember things. Music does that. When my late mother-in-law was in the latter stages of severe dementia and couldn’t remember even how to walk, she would immediately recognize this one. What I say is … let’s have more Willie and less war.

Oh my …

Music and Memories

Watched the first episode of the Ken Burns documentary Country Music last evening. It surely brought back some memories. In my youth, they kept our little country store open on Saturday nights until the last customer left, sometimes near one o’clock in the morning. Having spent the day in Pine Bluff, folks would stop on the way home to stock up on groceries for the week. They bought on credit mostly, waiting until payday or the day that Social Security or what they called back then “Old-aged Pension Checks” back then came.

Anyhow, crowds would gather and folks would visit on the front porch of the store while my parents filled orders. The kids would play and The Grand Ole Opry would blast from a little Philco radio. We’d vow to stay up until the store closed but sleep always won. I can’t count the number of times I fell asleep with Uncle Pen on the radio, performed by Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys.

One night, while we were still outside playing, a disagreement occurred between two women over some man, wouldn’t you figure? Before anyone knew it, a straight razor gashed an arm open and the Sheriff had to be summoned. I didn’t see the incident, but I caught a glimpse of the result when the Sheriff opened the door of the pickup truck where the woman sat. She was overweight, and the gash didn’t get through the fat, it seemed. But is sure made a mess.

Two or three of us kids stood around, awestruck, until they chased us away. I don’t think they did anything but send the perpetrator home and the victim to the hospital. The law didn’t get too involved in “cuttin’ scrapes” in those days when the participants weren’t white.

If the future episodes of Country Music are as good as the first, we are in for a treat, and I’m in for a lot more memories.

Armies for God or Armies for Good?

“A riot is an ugly thing. But I think it is just about time that we had one!” That’s just a line from a 1974 film by Mel Brooks. What on earth does it have to do with the Sermon on the Mount?

Nothing probably. But in a strange way of thinking, maybe the Galilean was suggesting a riot, not a violent mob-led wave of destruction, oh no. Perhaps what he had in mind was a “riot of righteousness.” Now wouldn’t that be a hoot, these days?

Notice how he uses some of his most sensory metaphors for urging his listeners, including his disciples, to follow him and do good things?

He evokes a sense taste when he says, in Matthew 5:13 “Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Ah yes, without the salt of righteousness, we shall be stomped into the ground.” (KJV)

How about a sense of sight? “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (5:14-16)

Doesn’t he then extol the crowd to use their sense of hearing and gift of speech for righteousness sake? “Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. (5:19)

Surely the bit about the pearls and the pigs can stir our senses of touch and smell.

Oh yes. I don’t think he was merely preaching that day, as the scriptures present him. He was raising an army, an army of the righteous. Wouldn’t it be nice if Americans heeded his words today? We need them in a time in which our social-reward system is so heavily oriented toward greed, avarice, cruelty, force, power, hatred, falsehood, and disrespect of others.

Wow. What would Franklin Graham and the other harbingers of hate think if they say an army of Americans coming toward them with stone copies of the The Beatitudes in their hands?

The Galilean foresaw this when he said, “For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.” (5:20)

You know, that’s why “The Sermon” obsesses me so. Whether one is “born again,” a cultural Christion, a doubter, a disbeliever, or simply a “goodness-seeker,” the Galilean’s words serve as a universal guide to a good life and a powerful warning against a bad one.

We seem to be so divided these days in our country. Divisiveness and the reward system described above seem destined to destroy us. A powerful group thinks guns will save us. Another powerful group thinks that unbridled license is the answer. Another powerful group thinks that better access to drugs will serve as our salvation. Then comes the “Thought Control Police.” Of course, there are those who trust Twitter, cell phones, more cars, bigger houses, social insulation, racial purity, war, or wealth.

I think maybe reading the words ascribed to the Galilean from on that lonely Judean hill each morning before setting forth might be worth a try. At the very least, it would scare hell out of the pharisees.