If you submit after June 7th — it’s just fine — but ya’ll are in the next batch of readings and will hear from us by July 10th.

 Valerie and Everybody but the kitchen sink.

"Hello?"

"Bea, it’s me, Lucille."

"Well, hey girl. How ya doin?"

"Oh you know, same ole, same ole. What’s up with you?"

"I’m jus makin cookies for the bake sale tomorrow. Oh, wait, hang on a minute. CASEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE? WELL STOP IT, AND GIT DOWN FROM OFFA THAT TRUCK. YOUR DADDY WILL TAN YOUR HIDE. Okay Lucille, I’m back. Lordy, Lordy, I swear, sometimes that boy makes my asshole wanna dip snuff. Now then, what’s the news?"

"Billy Joe Monroe, Dep’ty Harding picked him up for bein’ drunk agin, and I mean, he was fightin’ drunk. Do you know what he did?"

"What Lucille, whad he do?"

"Well, Bea, he busted up Ole Pops’ store, then gave Dep’ty Harding a black eye, sure as I’m sittin here."

"Lordy, Lordy, will that boy never learn. Hey, by tha way, I was over at County Line Auction tha other day, and you shoulda seen ole preacher Boyd.  Seems he was tryin to sell one of them huntin dogs of his, and he was showin some ole boys how well that dog could tree a coon. Only tha dog couldn’t see no coon, so he wasn’t cooperatin. Ole preacher Boyd, you know how he is when he’s tryin to sell someim, he got down on his knees at tha bottom of one of them telephone poles, and jus like onea his dogs, he goes to howlin and barkin, and pretendin he’s tree’d a coon. Tha dog was just standin there, scratchin hisself and lookin bored. It was the funniest sight cha ever seen"

"That sounds like that crazy old cuss."

"But that ain’t the best part, Lucille. Some lady, she was drivin one of them fancy cars down tha highway, and there she see’s ole preacher Boyd actin a fool, treein imaginary coons, and she run plum offa tha road, and right inta tha ditch. She got outta that car and began cussin and screamin at tha preacher. I laughed so hard, I jus about split my liver."

"That is funny. I’da loved ta see that crazy fool’s face."

"Lucille, it was tha funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time."

"I bet. Wish I’da been there ta see it too. Oh yea Bea, you’re not gonna believe this."

"Yeah?"
"Last Tuesdy, Mary Jane’s sister, you know, the one who’s daughter was sent away for 9 months cuz she supposedly had tha mono?"

"Yeeeeah, mono my foot."

"Well, Mary Jane’s sister said she saw Rev’rend Parker givin Susie Walker comfortin last Tuesdy night, on a count her husband just ran off with that tramp that worked in Miss Sissy’s beauty parlor."

"So what Lucille, Rev’rend Parker gives comfortin ta lotsa people."

"Yeah, maybe, but he don’t usely do it at the Blue Swan motel, does he?"

"Whaaaat? You’re kiddin me? Poor Betsy. Pray God she never finds out. Ya know, she worked two jobs ta put that man through that fancy preacher school in Dallas. He should be ashamed of hisself."

"Speakin of lazy, no good cheatin husbands, I think my Hank has been steppin out on me……….. .Bea? Bea? You there?"
"Uh yeah Lucille, I’m here. Now uh what makes you think that?"

"Well, Gerty Norton told me she saw him up at the 76 Truck Stop up on Highway 59, and even though she said she didn’t get a real good look at the woman, she said he was definly with a woman."

"Really?……Uh…. Did she say what that woman looked like?"

"She said she was kinda heavy set, with short black hair….like you, Bea. She said if she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was you."

"Did she now?"

"Yep….that’s what she said. Now Bea, I’ve known ya a long time, but I have ta ask ya, an I hope you’ll tell me tha truth…. you been messin with my Hank?…….Bea? You been messin with Hank?"

"…………Naw, Lucille, you know I wouldn’t do that. Lordy, Lordy, I’m a good christian woman, you know that."

"Yea…..yea, I do. But Gerty swears it was you. I’m tellin ya now, if you are, I will beat you so hard, your future grankids will feel it, you can bet your ass on that."

"I know ya would Lucille, I know ya would. But you know I can barely keep up with tha man I got. Maybe he just hooked up with one of those women truckers I’ve seen up there lately."

"Yea, you’re probably right. Well, anyway Bea, I was gonna tell ya that Spencer’s Department Store is havin a sale. Tha other day, I got me the prettiest new dress, only I don’t know if I’ll be able to wear it this Sundy."

"Why not?"

"Well, you know how tha weather’s been. Warm one week, chilly the next. Why, last week it was colder ‘an a witch’s tit in a brass bra."

"Well, I wouldn’t worry, Lucille, that good fer nothin weather guy says it’s suppose ta been nice and sunny this weekend….an he’s right bout half tha time, so your chances are purty good. I gotta go, Lucille, my cookies are ready to come outta tha oven."

"Okay, Bea, guess I’ll speak ta ya Sundy at church."

"Yeah, I’m really lookin forward ta church now, considerin what ya just tol me bout tha Rev’rend and Susie Walker. Bu-bye now, Lucille."

"Bu-bye, Bea."

***

"Hank’s Garage, kin I hep ya?"

"Hank?"

"Yea? Bea? Is that you?"

"Yea, Hank, it’s me. Listen, if ya stick your finger in a rattlesnake’s mouth, ya can’t get mad when it bites ya."

"What tha hell does that mean?"

"It’s over Hank"

Click.

Adeleine pours a whiskey barrel’s
juice into her cup.

Plastic, a
small hole in the bottom,

it drains slowly,
and she sips, which is wasteful,

until bees greet the
underside.

The color of honey
draws them.

Or was it the scent
of a seemingly sweet nectar?

My nude body, I mention,
is not a temple but a portion

of this very earth.
She laughs, shaking her cup

of draining whiskey;
the bees buzz louder,

confused.
As if honey were the splattering sort.

And God said, "Take these words and treat them gently.  Prepare them and mix them as you would a savory gumbo.  Give them fire and give them sweetness.  Give them character and give them color.  Use these words to tell stories and write them down.
 
"And in the fullness of time, I will honor your storytelling by moving the literary capital south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Hollywood producers will come and marvel at your words.  I will give you air-conditioning, and everyone, if would seem, will want to move to the land of the storytellers.
 
"You will elect presidents, and southern accents and words shall prevail in the halls of Congress.  And, yea, even grits will be honored in the lexicons of the finest chefs.  Catfish and hushpuppies?  Maybe."
 
And the people did.  And God did.  And God called it, "Good."  And all the people, even the Yankees, said, "Amen."
 
Thus it came to pass that all persons who told, wrote and read good stories became Southerners, and knew in their hearts that they were, whether they were blessed to live there or not.
 

and now the story by  Ed Laird 

Smokey and Dixie sat on opposite sides of Mam-Maw’s front porch and made good-natured faces at each other.  Smokey sucked in his cheeks and puffed out his lips to imitate a guppy. The light-hearted imitation was not wasted on Dixie, who turned away, ending the game. 

A setting sun turned South Avenue into a wildfire of reds, yellows and oranges.  Smokey raised his thin hands in front of his eyes to watch the sunlight illuminate his veins.  Dixie caught the sun rays in a webbed bag of marbles and twisted the collection to create a kaleidoscope against the white clapboard house. 

The quiet of the street was interrupted by three cars and a truck bed loaded with children, all yelling and laughing, riding gleefully toward an unknown attraction. Smokey and Dixie stood and watched as several adults and children passed on foot, all going in the same direction as the automobiles and all excitedly talking and motioning to each other, kicking up red dust from the road. 

“What’s happening?”  Dixie yelled.  “Where y’all going?”  She couldn’t be heard above the din. 

A straggler, four yards behind, was more informative:  “The Goat Man’s on the highway!”    

Dixie jumped up and down, clapping her hands.  “Mama, Mama, Goat Man is on the highway!  Can me and Smokey go see him?”  Without waiting for a reply through the screened door, she took Smokey by the hand and they started for the road.  “Smokey, you have to keep up if you want to the see the Goat Man.” 

“What’s … a goat … man?”  he asked between heavy breaths as he navigated the road’s ruts and tried to match Dixie’s running pace. 

“Just you wait and see.  I’ve been waiting for him for three years.” 

After a right on Goshen Road and three long blocks to the top of Goshen Hill, they stood transfixed at the twilight scene below them.  In the parking lot of the Fruit Stand stood a converted railroad car with steel wheels, now a wagon with a canopy of goat skins stretched to cover all except the driver’s bench.  Surrounding the wagon were five, ten, no, more, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen goats foraging on the grassy slope that stretched upward from the wagon toward the kudzu growth.  Near the front of the wagon, sitting on a three-legged stool, was a balding, bearded man clothed in goat skins. His rounded face and powerful arms looked the color and texture of brown leather; his gnarled hands stirred a bubbling pot over a fire of dry tree branches.  Three baby goats cavorted in mock battle in and around the campfire. 

Most of the town had turned out for the event.  Cars lined both sides of the highway for a mile in both directions, and the police with red lights flashing fought a losing action to keep the traffic flowing when motorists stopped to gawk.  A hundred or so persons stood in a semi-circle around the encampment and watched as the center of attraction carried out routine chores: carrying milk to an ailing goat lying on straw in back of the wagon, mending harnesses, and placing handwritten placards of plywood against the wagon side. 

Holding his hand, Dixie took Smokey across the highway where he sat down on the grass as close to the Goat Man as he dared.   

“Dixie,” he said, “what do the signs say?” 

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make his paths straight. Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.  Store up your treasures in heaven.” 

“Is he a preacher man?”     

“I think so.”  

“What’s happened to you since the last time we saw you?” an onlooker asked. 

“Well, I nearly froze to death coming over Signal Mountain.  Started snowing, so I just piled more goats in the wagon and we kept each other warm.  Next night someone put a gash in my head and killed three of the goats.  Cut their throats.  I spent one night in the Chattanooga hospital, but I’m alright now. The Lord provides.”

“Do you ever get lonely?” 

“Do I look like I need company?”  He swept his hand around at the hundred folks listening attentively to every word. 

“Do you ever wish you could move faster?  Maybe get a truck?” 

“No, goat speed is fine.  I don’t have a definite place to go and don’t have a definite time or day to get there.  Speed is not important.  God gives me water when it rains, and heat when the sun shines.  I don’t have to pay for gasoline.  Have an oil lamp when I need to read after dark.  I’m just passing through. Don’t need much.” 

He spread out picture post cards of himself and the goats which he sold for a nickel apiece.  Each time a customer dropped a nickel or dime in his hand, he graciously responded, “My goats thank you.  They work hard and they like to live high.”  He posed for those wanting a picture of themselves with him and the goats. 

“Are you ever hungry?” 

“Hungry?  With these many goats to give me milk?  Never.”  To amuse the crowd, he stopped a passing nanny, gripped her teat, and sprayed milk into his mouth.  The children all laughed, so he pressed the teat in the opposite direction and sprayed them with warm milk. They giggled and pulled back in pretended horror. “And I have more friends along my route than I can count.  They keep me well-supplied with vegetables. Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word of God, fresh vegetables and a little goat’s milk.”  He smiled. 

“Do you think you will ever settle down and get a job?” 

“What need do I have for a home and a job?  These goats are my job, and this wagon is all the home I need.  The lilies along side the road here don’t work, yet King Solomon at his finest never looked as good as these day lilies.  They greet God every morning, bask in his love all day and enter into their final rest each night.   Doesn’t God, who loves day lilies that only live one day, love us even more?” 

“Are you saving anything for your retirement?” 

“I don’t plan to retire.  I plan to be here one day and in heaven the next.  Absent from the body; present with the Lord.”  He pointed to the sign.  “Don’t lay up treasures for yourself on this earth.  Put your treasures in heaven.  Lots of folks think that heaven is the dream and that this is the reality.  Right the opposite.  This is the dream and heaven is the reality.  Reality lasts a lot longer than the dream.” 

The crowd fell silent as he bowed his head briefly, scooped up a cup of broth from the pot and drank it from a tin coffee cup. 

“Too many folks,” he said, “live as if they are going to be on this earth forever.  This life is just a snap of the fingers.”  He snapped his fingers for effect. 

“ Did you ever go to school?” 

“No.  Even as a young boy I had to work.  My family was poor.  I went to New York when I was fourteen and married a knife-thrower.  I was her target in her act for the three years we was married.  After three years she found a better looking target. Never argue with a woman with a knife.”  He winked.  The crowd laughed.  “Better for man to live alone if he can.  A married man has to consider his wife’s needs.  I only have to consider God’s needs.” 

“You sound like an educated man.” 

“Well, God taught me to read the Bible.  But that’s the only book I can read. So all I know is what God has taught me and what I have learned from watching folks like you.  The best educations come from God and life. Most folks don’t know how to use the educations they’ve got.  I ride along these highways and God teaches me a lot of things.  Shows me a lot of things.” 

It was dark now and the crowd was starting to thin.  Smokey and Dixie sat on the ground and did not move or miss a word.  The campfire and the boiling soup added warmth and aroma to the evening.  The adult goats, the white ones eating the kudzu near the top of the hill, looked like floating ghosts. 

“Are you a prophet?” 

“Not the kind of prophet you’re probably thinking about.” 

“What kind of prophet are you?” 

“I don’t predict the future. I let folks see what God has already showed them, but they can’t see.” 

“What’s your real name?” 

“I had a ‘real name’ once.  One that my parents gave me.  But when I became a new man, God gave me a new name.” 

“What’s your new name?” 

“That I can’t tell.  Goat Man’s good enough.” 

“Do you eat the goats?” 

“Would you eat your friends?  These goats are my friends.  They all have names.  That’s Isaiah. That’s Jeremiah over there.  This here is Mary Magdalene.” 

“Them’s religious names.” 

“Yes, and these are religious goats.  Every one of them are saved and sanctified.  Stephen even speaks in tongues when he gets mad at me.” Goat Man smiled.  “The goat skins over my wagon and the ones I wear don’t mean that I eat the goats.  When they enter their heavenly rest, I skin them and bury the remains along side the road.   I keep their skins to remember them by. Like some of you who keep locks of your loved ones’ hair.  I know where each is buried and I visit their graves.”  

By now fewer than a dozen persons were still standing or sitting on the ground.  Absorbed in his own thoughts, the Goat Man looked at the stars.  Returning his gaze to his small congregation, he looked at Smokey, whose eyes had never left the Goat Man’s. 

“What’s your name, young man?” 

“Smokey.” 

“Smokey.  That’s a good name.  For you look through a glass darkly now, but someday you will see clearly.”  He stirred the embers on the fire and added more wood. “Smokey, come here and let’s see what The Great Spirit is showing you.” 

Without hesitation, Smokey surprised himself by getting up and crossing the five feet to sit in the Goat Man’s lap.  Though gnarled, the Goat Man’s hands were smooth as lanolin.  His odor reminded Smokey of freshly bathed kittens.  The Goat Man turned Smokey to face the fire.  Dixie, a protector if needed, stood by Smokey’s side.   

After dipping his fingertips into a cup of goat milk, the Goat Man covered Smokey’s face with his large hands and with the middle finger of each hand pressed against Smokey’s closed eyes.  “What do you see, Smokey?” 

“I see stars and flashing lights.” 

“Look deeper.  What do you see now?” 

“I see the man with the sweet breath who hurt me!” 

“Yes, and what is he doing?” 

“He’s underwater in the river.  His hands are inside a hole…a cave under a big rock.  Why is he under the water?” 

“He’s a noodler.  He’s trying to catch fish with his bare hands.  What do you see now?” 

“The big rock fell on his hands.  He can’t move!  He can’t come up from under the water!” 

“Yes, and…” 

“He’s wiggling, and wiggling, and wiggling, but he can’t get loose!  Will he drown?  Will anyone see him?  Will anyone save him?” 

“That’s his Maker’s decision.  ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.  Jesus said it would be better for a man to have a millstone tied around his neck and dropped into the sea than to harm a child.” 

“I see big bubbles coming from the man’s mouth!” 

“Yes, and now he’s quiet and still, ain’t he?  Quiet and still. Don’t worry, Smokey.  He’s no longer in his body.  He’s in another place.  You won’t ever see him again, and he can’t hurt you. Ever again.” 

The Goat Man took his hands from around Smokey’s face, and they both stared into the fire. They looked at the stars. 

Whispering into Smokey’s ear, the Goat Man said, “You’ve been hurt, Smokey, but God has marked you.  Do you know about the mark?” Smokey reached and touched a scar that separated his right eyebrow when he fell against a chair while playing hide-and-seek in Mam-Maw’s house. 

“Yes, the mark,” the Goat Man said.  “The mark is to remind you of God’s promise.  The mark will disappear someday but not until you are an old man and have been healed of the hurt.  You will have to become an old man before you can become a young man.  Do you understand me?” 

“No, sir.” 

“No, you’re too young, but someday you will.  Every bad thing that happens to you that you don’t understand leads to something good, either in the dream or in the reality to come. Joy comes from pain.  Laughter comes from tears.  Triumph comes from defeat.  You can bank on it.  You have a great adventure ahead of you, Smokey.  You and me will meet again someday, somewhere.  Here’s something to remember me by.” 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace of small shells and dropped it over Smokey’s head.  “They’re pookas.  A Cherokee Indian, a holy man, gave them to me.  Never take them off.  Not even when you bathe.  They’ll protect you from further harm.” 

Smokey saw his mother and father step out of the car that pulled alongside the encampment.  Smokey and Dixie ran for the car. “Mama, Mama, I talked to the Goat Man!”  Smokey rolled down the window and stuck his head out the window as the encampment receded.  The Goat Man, illuminated by the campfire, was still standing, smiling and looking at Smokey. 

“Daddy, I’m hungry.  Let’s go get hamburglars.” 

“We have to go straight home, Smokey” his mother said.  “We have to take Grandma back to her old home.  Her Cousin Willy has died.” 

“What happened?” 

“He drown.” 

Smokey shivered, sat very still, and said nothing.  Dixie grasp his hand and held it all the way home.   

My day was a total disaster. I’d had to stand with my nose in a circle on the blackboard an hour for slapping Misty Collier. She started it by calling me a doody head. Things went downhill from there.

Walking home, I had almost reached our driveway. It was more like two paths through the middle of a dense forest, but driveway was what daddy called it, so mama and I did to.

Inside Mr. Tanker’s field sat a large flatbed truck with a wench on the back. It reminded me of a tow truck I had seen on the highway once. Three men were standing around waving their arms and shouting.

As I got closer, I could see they were trying to load something on the flatbed. Mr. Tanker was a cantankerous old man, going mostly to fat. When he talked his cheeks moved with the rhythm of his mouth. Even closer now, I recognized Billy Joe Watson and Buddy Lee Simpson, a couple of no accounts that lived in the trailer park on the other side of town. They were hooking something on the wench.

They yelled, cursed and walked back and forth, trying to figure out how to get the lump on the ground onto the truck. Finally, Billy Joe started cranking the wench. The first thing I realized was they were drunk as Cooter Brown. Don’t ask. That’s what daddy always said when he saw somebody falling down drunk.

Second, I realized what they were trying to haul up on that truck. Delilah. My stomach heaved. I leaned over, breathing hard, trying to get stuff to stay where it belonged. I could feel the heat leave my body and I shivered.

Delilah was a mule. She was also my friend. In fact, at this very moment, I had half an apple in my lunch pail, saved just for her. Now, these drunks were trying to pull her up by her back feet.

“Gosh dammit, Billy Joe,” Buddy Lee screamed. “What in blue blazes are you doing? It’s a hunnert degrees out here. Let’s get this over with.”

They tried again. Delilah came off the ground, but her back legs caught on the flatbed. I could hear ka-thunk, ka-thunk as Billy Joe raised and lowered the wench. My stomach turned over and bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it down, afraid of what would happen if those men saw me.

“Gol-durnit,” Mr. Tanker yelled. “Stop it. You’re givin’ me a headache.” He staggered around to the back of the truck, beer clutched tightly in one hand. “You boys ain’t worth a copper penny,” he said, sitting his beer can carefully on the ground behind him. Grabbing Delilah’s legs, he yelled over his shoulder, “Now try it.”

Billy Joe raised the wench again, but Mr. Tanker was having problems holding the legs straight and they caught again. “You’re ‘bout worthless as a opossum on the side of the road,” Mr. Tanker yelled. “Hold it.”

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t drag my eyes away. I could hear daddy’s voice in my head as he complained about the spectators at a bad car wreck a couple of months ago. “They ain’t nothing but a bunch of vultures, just waiting.”

I felt like one of them vultures as I peered through the pole fence rails. I hadn’t even realized tears were coursing down my cheeks until one splashed on the back of my hand.

“Put yer back into it.” Mr. Tanker’s loud, drunken voice pried my eyes back to the horror unfolding in front of me.

“It’s hung up,” Buddy Lee said.

Mr. Tanker threw up his hands, bent down for his beer and almost toppled head first in the grass. He finally got straightened up, but he was swaying back and forth like a strong wind bends the trees.

I kept wondering what happened. Delilah was fine when I’d gone out this morning. She’d followed me down the fence, braying softly, wanting a treat. I’d given her half the apple then patted her soft brown muzzle, telling her she’d get the rest this afternoon. Now, she’d never eat another apple. The tears started again.

Mr. Tanker wound up and let loose with a mouthful of curse words so bad they made my ears hurt. The mule’s legs were still making that awful ka-thunking sound.

I would be nine years old next week, but it felt as though I aged a lifetime watching them trying to load my friend. She might not feel it, but she deserved better than three drunks taking her to her final resting place.

“Hey kid.” I looked up.

-I’m Bill Don Huckins and I’m a stock car race fan. From February to November every year I spend my Sunday’s all over the United States at the Winston Cup races. Listenin’ to the roar of motors from forty three racecars crankin’ out eight hundred horsepower a piece and watchin’ that flash of speed as the racecars hurl around NASCAR tracks is what I live for. I thrill to photo finishes and agonize through the wrecks. Racin’ does somethin’ for me that nothin’ else in this world does. I live for it. I don’t know exactly why but the love of racin’ is in my blood. Maybe it’s because of where and how I was raised up?

-My Daddy, you see, hailed from Kannapolis NC, the same little town that Dale Earnhart come from. Like Dale, Daddy quit high school in the ninth grade and he went to work in Shorty McAuliffe’s garage. Daddy and Shorty built up short block Chevy’s for racecars, and after a while Daddy used his savings and bought into Shorty’s bidness. That’s when they changed the name to Huckins and McAuliffe’s Racing Motors. Shorty and my Daddy got to be well known around the NASCAR circuit for good built race motors. They put motors together for some of the winnin’est racers. And, they made themselves a good bit of money.

-As a kid, unlike many of my buddies from hardscrabble NC mountain families, I was never in want for nothin’. Daddy made sure I had whatever it was I needed or wanted. I always had good Levis and NASCAR logo tee shirts and gimmee caps. I was a cool dude. Some of my buddies was right jealous of my shirts and caps. Then, Daddy bought me a slick red 67 Malibu ragtop when I was sixteen and he helped me to build up the motor. Me and that car was sumptin’.

-When I was a very little boy my Daddy and me went together to NASCAR weekly races all around North Carolina. And as I got bigger my Daddy took me travelin’ to the Busch Grand National races on Saturdays and the Winston Cup races on Sundays. Them Bush and Winston Cup races was big time. I truly came to love watchin’ the bright painted WINSTON CUP racecars and listenin’ to their thunder.

-Daddy introduced me to a bunch of top notch racers and the mechanics who was his friends. It was from Daddy and his friends that I learned all ’bout how race cars was put together. How the tube chassis is made; how racecars is set up for different kinds of tracks; and how to get the horsepower outta the race motors. They even learned me ’bout the sheet metal work and the paintin’ of the racecars. I guess with all that Daddy and them other guys taught to me I could’a become a racecar builder myself. Or, maybe even a race driver.

-But, I din’t become neither. I went into sellin’ rebar for construction. I made a lot of money and was always able to take off time so I never had to miss out on a Winston Cup race. An’, even if I din’t become a racer, bein’ a race fan became a lifelong thing and it surely satisfied me. I got my Daddy to thank for that. Yes sir, I’d have to say that I learned my love of NASCAR racin’ from my Daddy.

-Momma, on the other hand, was nothin’ at all like Daddy. She ignored stock car racin’ when Daddy and just about everybody else in Kannapolis lived and breathed NASCAR, especially WINSTON CUP. Momma, you see, had been a bad ‘un when she was a young girl. Leastwise that was the reputation she picked up in our part of Baptist North Carolina and that was what I growed up hearin’. Rumor was that Momma’s teen years was spent hangin’ around seedy establishments that attracted some of the NASCAR crowd. It was said that she drank a whole lot of corn liquor and smoked cigarettes. An’ it was said around our small NC mountain town that she was a wild dancer in the clutches of Satan, shakin’ her hips like a female copy of Elvis Presley. Singin’ out all a them indecent Elvis songs. She was what the boys call ‘a piece of work’. The town ladies called her somethin’ different.

-There was other rumors about my Momma that were purely nasty. Some said she done the dirty with a lot of the racers. Them rumors hurt but I didn’t believe them. At least I didn’t want to believe them. But, all them rumors, was they truth or lies, was from the time before my Momma was saved.

-Along about when Momma was twenty years old the Reverend Will Smallsmith come to Kannapolis. He was a bible thumpin’, fire and brimstone spittin’ tent preacher who set up in a weedy field just outside of town. Momma and some of the racin’ crowd that she ran ’round with in them days drove on up to the revival preacher’s tent intendin’ on goin’ inside and makin’ mock. But, in Momma’s case, it didn’t turn out that way. Reverend Will (most folks just called him that) got to her with his screechin’ ’bout sin and sinners. Momma come to believe that Reverend Will’s preachin’ pointed right to her wicked ways. It came to pass that instead of makin’ mock, Momma went up onto the stage where Reverend Will laid hands on her and asked “was she saved?” She said she was and that was the God’s truth from her own lips, she was indeed saved. Momma often told me that right there on that stage Reverend Will shouted Hallelujah, brothers and sisters, this lost sister has done come home to Jesus. Praise the Lord.

-Momma put all of her sinful ways aside and started a new life. She soon married Daddy and before another year went by I was born. She never looked back to her old ways.

-Momma nurtured me and learned me to love Jesus. She believed prayer to be powerful good and she believed Jesus listened to those who were born again and who would pray to him. She prayed for Daddy and for me. Prayed that our ways would be pleasin’ to the good Lord Jesus. She prayed that she would never again visit her old sinful ways. And, she prayed that Elvis was still alive. Everythin’ else about Momma had changed when she got saved ‘cept Elvis. Elvis was the one part of Momma’s girlhood that she brung into her born again maturity.

-So, that’s how I was brung up. Daddy teachin’ me about motors and racecars and Momma teachin’ me about Jesus and prayin’. It was the best of two worlds I always thought. My love of racecars comin’ from my Daddy and my knowin’ all about prayin’ to Jesus comin’ from my Momma. When I was a growed up man and Daddy and Momma had passed I had what they done taught me and I was grateful for that.

-On Sunday, February 18, 2001, I was in the grandstand at the Daytona 500 watchin’ racecars and listenin’ to the spotters with my scanner. It was a humdinger of a race. At one point there was a twenty one car pileup and not one race driver was hurt. Anyway, on the last lap Dale was shepherdin’ the racecars he owned and that was bein’ drove by Michael Waltrip and Dale’s son Junebug to first and second place finishes. Dale was set up to come in third, lessen’ he ducked down and passed Michael and Junebug for the win, but that weren’t too likely. There was a lot of crowdin’ and some bumpin’ goin’ on out there on the racetrack. It surely was a real excitin’ automobile race.

-One second we was all watchin’ Michael in the yellow and blue NAPA number fifteen car and Junebug in the red Budweiser number eight car racin’ for the finish. Then Dale in the black number three Chevvy and Sterling Martin in the red number forty Dodge was comin’ into turn four an’ jockeyin’ for position. Suddenly the back end of Dale’s racecar jumped out toward the wall. Somethin’ had happened and apparently Sterling’s racecar had hit Dale’s racecar. I don’t know if Dale lifted or what, but Sterling was just drivin’ hard, he weren’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. Still, Dale’s back end cut loose and he tried to control the slide. His racecar fishtailed, ducked low, and then went up and hit the wall, hard, turnin’ a one-eighty. Then Dale’s Chevvy got rammed nose on by Ken Schrader’s number thirty six Pontiac.

-Lordy, it all happened so fast. Dale and Kenny came off the wall and lot’s of racecars barley missed crashin’ them. Finally, Dale’s and Kenny’s slide spinnin’ racecars come to a halt in the infield grass. Meantime Michael in the number fifteen Chevvy crossed the finish line the winner and Junior in the number eight car was right behind him in the number two spot. Neither of them knew yet that Dale had crashed.

-Everybody in the stands held their breath. The earlier twenty-one car pile up looked real scary but us fans knew the wreck that Dale had just had was worse. We knew that this one was a bad one.

-Ambulances and emergency trucks rushed to the wrecked racecars. Junior got out of his racecar and took off running to where his Daddy was pinned in his famous black number three Goodwrench Chevvy.

-Kenny got out of his thirty six car. He weren’t hurt none, praise the Lord. But, Dale, he just weren’t movin’.

-The emergency crew cut the roof off the number three car and Dale was immediately took off to the hospital. But, a later report said the hospital trip was too late; that Dale had died instantly at the point of impact with the wall.

-I didn’t want to believe none of it. None of us fans did. Dale was the Intimidator. He was invulnerable. Extra-mortal, we believed. Maybe immortal. He was the best in Winston Cup racin’ and he wasn’t supposed to die in a wreck. Us fans, all of us, was stunned into disbelief.

-But, I had somethin’. I had the strong belief that NASCAR racecars are built safe that I learned from my Daddy. And, I had the prayin’ that I learned from my Momma. So, I figured the roll-cage of the number three Chevvy would’a kept Dale safe. And, I harked back to the Mamma’s lessons and I prayed. First, I prayed that the reports were wrong and that Dale weren’t dead. Then out of respect for my dear Momma’s memory I prayed that Elvis weren’t dead neither.

-Yet, somehow, no matter how much I wanted to know that Dale weren’t dead and no matter what my Momma had wanted to believe about Elvis, I was beginnin’ to get an inklin’ that there just weren’t nobody up there listenin’. That was hard for me to accept. I never doubted prayer before in my life. Why was I doubtin’ now? Maybe because of what my eyes had told me. I don’t rightly know. I just know that I wanted my prayers answered and comin’ to understand that there probably weren’t nobody hearin’ was the saddest thing that I ever come to realize. And, was I really to believe that no one was listenin’ and was I really to accept that as a true fact then I would be throwin’ to the wind all that my Momma taught me. I simply could not do that. So, I will go on through my life belivin’ my prayers was answered and that Dale ain’t dead and Elvis ain’t neither.

I used to dwell on the differences among people until I understood what Jonathan Russell, a Honduran radio commentator back in the 1960s, meant by coyotes from the same hill. Annoyed by the endless mutual accusations between the local political parties, he would cry out, “nationalists, liberals… but senores, they are all coyotes from the hill!”

Jonathan Russell was a short, skinny man with a big black drooping moustache, piercing eyes, and plenty valor. To be a frank critic of politics in those parts was not good for your health and, as could be expected, his days as a radio commentator were cut short. It was too bad that he called the American ambassador a liar one day. His journalist license was pulled, and he had to find other means of livelihood.

I don’t know what became of Jonathan Russell, or where his name came from originally. The last time I saw him, he was piloting a Cessna 180 out of Coxen Hole in the Bay Islands. Mind you, we did not pronounce his name as it sounds in English but, rather, in the Spanish version with the accent in the last syllable of both names: Jonatan Roosel. Perhaps he was a descendant of American immigrants, like the Williams family that descended from a confederate soldier who emigrated from the United States after the Civil War.

There are many such descendants in Honduras. An exception is the case of William Walker, the filibuster from Tennessee who died there without issue. The British Navy handed Walker to the Honduran authorities a few years after his defeat in the Nicaraguan civil wars of the 1850s. Alas, he was placed before a firing squad all too quickly. Had he been given the time to ask a proper lady for marriage, I have no doubt that he would have lived to old age. His name, though, still lives on as part of the Honduran elementary school history curriculum and on his tomb in the old port of Trujillo.

The perennial fisticuffs between the democrats and republicans here in the States remind me of Jonatan Roosel and his nationalist and liberal coyotes. How right he was, politicians indeed are all coyotes from the same hill. With the passage of years, however, I have come to understand that this assertion does not apply only to politicians. It is just that, as people, politicians are not exempt from the weaknesses and shortcomings of human nature. In the final analysis we are all coyotes from the same hill, and the ruckus of politics merely reflects this condition.

Problems often appear to be different because people look at things through their own cultural prisms. But the problems that beset humanity are surprisingly similar once you realize that the differences are ones of style or expression, and not of substance. I used to wonder, for instance, about differences among the forms of social expression. In Latin America, people are generally trained to be gracious and polite when dealing with peers, and Americans are considered to be brusque and rude.

There are good reasons why these cultural forms of expression are different. In the United States, one reason is that we have an adversarial legal system, which requires a vigorous, direct, and in your face approach to things. I could go on with a list of explanations, but it is not necessary to dwell on the subject. It is more important to understand the substance of human actions rather than the forms or styles of expression. If you are not careful about your business, you can get politely screwed in Latin America or you can get rudely screwed in the United States. While we can argue that it is nicer to get screwed politely, the truth is that you are just as screwed either way.

The same reasoning applies to democrats and republicans, liberals and conservatives, capitalists and communists, Sandinistas and Contras, and the like. As regular folks, we need to be mindful of our personal business and well being, and we need to understand the differences between style and substance. Ultimately, it makes no difference whether we get liberally or conservatively screwed.

The fact that we are a great nation is not based on ideology or political doctrine. Rather, it is based on a simple but brilliant institutional scheme that does not allow anyone or any one group to acquire too much power. Freedom itself is so often idealized in intellectual or political terms. But freedom is, at its root, a plain concept. Freedom exists only in those parts where no one can acquire a preponderance of power.

For many years, I have seen the same mistake repeated again and again in Latin America. You hear about young army officers upending the old, corrupt guard; or the Sandinista robin hoods dispatching the Somocistas; or the liberals, conservatives, socialists, social democrats, Christian democrats, Leninists, Trotskyites, Maoists, or Bolivarians heralding new eras of justice and prosperity. It never happens, of course, because they have failed to build the proper foundation of all free and stable nations. That is, to build an institutional framework where no one can grab hold of too much power.

The same problem exists in some local areas in the United States, although perhaps not to the same extreme. When I first arrived in New Orleans from Honduras, fresh out of high school, I was given some advice by an older and experienced man. Whatever you do, he recommended, do not, I repeat, do not register to vote as a republican in this town. If you do, you will never accomplish anything here. You can vote republican if you want, but make sure to register as a democrat.

Thirty five years later, New Orleans still has a form of government that can only be described as a party dictatorship, similar to the Institutional Revolutionary Party that held near absolute political power in Mexico for generations. The results are most predictable. Similarly to Mexico, New Orleans has been mired in a corrupt and unjust condition for many years and its regular people have suffered greatly.

Yet, we cannot conclude that the results would be any different if the republicans had held unchecked power over New Orleans for so many years. The results would have been the same, because it does not matter who or what holds power. The crux of the matter is that no one, or no one group, should hold excessive power. In the case of New Orleans, the bulk of its problems will be resolved only when it allows the democratic and republican forces to clash in heated battle, giving honest choices to the people, and forcing each other to toe the line.

Would things be any better if Southerners held a preponderance of power in this country? This question reminds me of a story about my great grandfather. One day, he walked into the house after having an argument with a man, muttering, “I hate them narrow eyed, narrow hipped sons of bitches.” To which my great grandmother responded, “Paw, your hips look none too wide from where I sit.”

We live in interesting times today. Should we be democrats, or should we be republicans? It is a tough question to answer because we are at war. At this time, we can’t help but to vote for the party that knows how to deal with the uncertainties, the mistakes, and the sacrifices of real warfare. How can we vote for a party whose notion of warfare is to wallop Christmas trees and boy scouts with stacks of legal papers?

Beyond that, things are not so clear. The Democratic Party, once the party of the people, has been taken over by those who have forgotten where they come from. The sons and daughters of sturdy workers, soldiers and farmers, went off to New York City and became flimsy, senseless, and prone to the vapors. Over in La California, the descendants of jugglers, songsters, and belly dancers, now wealthy beyond word and reason, petulantly instruct us on how to handle our business.

Democrats no longer know what the American Revolution was about. The European nobilities, English, French, and Spanish, viewed us as a collection of dunces and peasants. They were so highly educated and refined, so blinded by their own brilliance, that they could not grasp what a nation of commoners was destined to accomplish with its new form of government.

We have no high classes in the United States. A republic, such as ours, is the form of government of the middle class. To have a high class as defined by its economic, social, and political meanings, in other words a noble class, we would need to have a different form of government such as a monarchy or an aristocracy.

Thus far, we have not become a monarchy or an aristocracy. Yet, it is easy to acquire airs of privilege and superiority when we come across a bit of money or professional success, even in a nation of commoners such as ours. We have rich folks around Boston, Connecticut, and New York who fancy funny hats and English riding saddles. Coming from solid American stock, however, they comprise a middle class with lots of money and not a high class in the proper sense of the word.

That is precisely the problem with the democratic leadership of our day. They have made some money and a name for themselves, and are now acting like delicate counts and baronesses. God forbid they come down to the provinces, lest they swoon at the sight of common folk.

Jest aside, the present condition of the Democratic Party is a serious problem for the country. It is often argued that the Republican Party is the party of the rich and powerful, and in many ways it is. The real question is, if the Republican Party is the party of the rich, and the Democratic Party has become the party of intellectual nobles, who is looking after the interests of the regular people?

It is not an idle question, but one that portends ugly consequences for our nation. On the republican side, what does it mean if we completely do away with the estate tax, for example? Will this lead to economic progress for the nation? Or will it lead us to become a quasi feudal nation peopled largely by serfs? There are varied reasons why estate taxation developed the way it did, including a need to prevent the concentration of unreasonable personal power in the process of dynastic wealth building.

These kinds of questions get thorough consideration only when true and representative political forces square into battle. In the course of politics, there is nothing wrong with a party representing the interests of the rich and powerful, because the powerful are part of the body politic and they are entitled to representation like everyone else. On the other hand, the regular people must also be well represented in the political process, for reasons that are obvious. Good politics is not a matter of the powerful abusing the people, or of a mob descending on the rich. It is a matter of maintaining a reasonable amount of fairness, justice, and freedom for all.

Which of the two is the party of the people? Judging from the assortment of distinguished coyotes in these here hills, it is hard to tell. The only logical conclusion may be that neither party presently represents the regular people. Mr. Bush cuts a fine figure in war, but are he and his backers really looking after our interests in the long run? The democrats, on the other hand, have gone AWOL down a cerebral deep end. Awash in half-baked existential anguish, utopian fevers, and double talk, it is impossible to tell what they stand for.

And, so, again, we do live in interesting times today. We have the son of a fine Eastern family, from the land of funny riding hats no less, who acts and walks like a good Texas hombre. Then we have the bewildered descendants of workers and farmers who now frolic in the perfumed salons of Manhattan and academia. What will become of us? Who knows, but like my great grandmother would have said, things look none too good from where I sit.

She tries to remember to move the porcelain owl,
around the house and grounds, so the spirit of her father,
who lives in the owl, can have a change of scenery.

Kitchen window view, always especially pleasing-
watching birds eating, brown squirrels thieving,
azalea leaves drinking in the blood red sap of summer.

October sun angles in, burning tender skin
and light gently fades, blending bright into night
till afternoons feel just like mornings.

Then winter approaches, with slivers of platinum
star-scrawled message scattered across
an indigo felt forever-ness,

Like midnight’s blanket, dotted with fireflies,
twinkles are held a few seconds longer
so he can un-paint his eyelids and see them,

If only he would un-paint his eyelids and see them.

Bill has ignored or adapted to the changes of three hundred years. He walked these wooded shores with the natives, with the French, and finally with the Americans. He has seen woodlands fade away and become, now, this quaint southern village. He accepts these changes as best he can, camouflaging himself under a daily shift of form, and comforting himself in whatever consistency he can find. For more than thirty years, the bookstore has been part of that consistency.

This town to him is made up of the things that resist change: buildings, roads, light poles, and trees. Over the years he has forged a routine and a path from which he never wavers. Page and Palette, a rambling bookstore made up of interconnecting rooms, fits in one small niche of that routine. It is not a destination; he has no destinations, but rather the constant present moment that is moved forward by strict routine. The routine is the rain; each moment a single raindrop.

Another day passes, and as the appointed time approaches, so does he, walking easily down Section Street, to the corner bookstore with its long bank of windows in front. He walks beside two-story buildings with the stores at ground level and apartments above, and as he passes Fairhope Pharmacy on his right, across the street a woman takes a jogging step around a waste receptacle between The Book Inn and The Cat’s Meow, and Bill feels a rightness in his soul.

Memory finds no hold upon the quicksand of people and cars and seasons and trends. The rightness comes when the sameness holds, and at times like these, he becomes a man with a past.

The receptacle is wood, painted white, with flowers planted at its top. A split-brick sidewalk runs between the stores and the street, and, just past The Cat’s Meow, a balcony hangs over the sidewalk, looking down at the corner of Section and Fairhope Ave.

Blind to the details about the woman, he notices only her movement around the receptacle. He ignores the scattered people along the sidewalk. They mean nothing to him. He would ignore this woman, too, except for that simple movement which triggers a memory. He has seen that movement before, not once or twice, but everyday. Everyday, at this moment, a woman-a man, a child, someone-takes that same little jogging step.

Perceived memory triggers emotion, and that emotion produces in him a physical reaction: he smiles. The smile, though, is new. He does not smile at this time of day, has never smiled at this point in his walk. Anxiety swells up, erasing any thought of things being right.
A day passes, he sees her again, jogging her step around the receptacle. The sameness again thrills his soul. The emotion again brings the smile. By the third day, the smile becomes part of his routine. It ceases to be something new, ceases to be something scary, and without the anxiety, it lingers a little longer on his face.

By the end of the week, the smile comes with him as he enters Page and Palette. As he reads The Old Man and The Sea, he has an idea. He wants to talk to her, this creature that has entered herself into his routine.

The thought pleases him. Two weeks later, he is used enough to the idea to act upon it. Talking to her must come in steps, slow, glacial steps, to control the chaos such changes could bring.

First, he decides to wave to her. At three fifteen he hesitates slightly at the moment he sees her between The Cat’s Meow and The Book Inn. The boldness of that hesitation thrills him. Pushing on, he lengthens the hesitation day by day. After only two weeks he comes to a full stop before continuing on to the bookstore.

Not wanting to rush things, he leaves it at that for another week before pursuing the actual wave. At last, though, he is ready, and at the right moment he twitches his forearm. Within days, the arm is actually moving. By the end of a month, he has raised the arm with his palm pointed to her as if warning her to stop. Day by day, movement is added to the upraised arm. The day the act is finally achieved, he fails to notice it. After three days, however, he understands that he has reached that moment when at three fifteen he stops, looks at the woman across the street, raises his arm, and waves.

This adventure becomes part of his routine for several weeks, and then something unthinkable happens. She looks his way and makes eye contact. Actually, this has been going on for days by the time he notices.

At three seventeen he can barely concentrate on The Old Man and The Sea. The image of her blocks out the words. He has never looked anyone straight in the eye, soul to soul, being to being. After a few days of this he cannot remember what page he should be reading. A few days more and he cannot remember what book. Certainly, this must be love.

II
People seem suddenly thick around him. He cannot be sure of the change. He only knows he notices them more, is bothered by them more. At three fifteen he waves but can barely see her through the crowds and the cars. In the bookstore, he stands before the classics section, upset and confused. He no longer remembers what book he was reading, and the changes bother him. He wants to lose himself in the familiar, but he stands frozen by indecision and fear.

The next day is worse. Every-day life has always surrounded him with things he chose to ignore, but they were there: the people, the cars, these things that changed and followed no routine. Now they are gone, and he feels their absence. He walks alone down the sidewalk. At the appointed time, he stops and waves.

She jogs round the receptacle between The Cat’s Meow and The Book Inn. She is there. He knows the time is right, but he feels he must be late. The sky is too dark. He pushes on and reaches the bookstore on schedule. The doors are locked. The windows are boarded up. He stands at the doors, helpless, and confused.

By three fifteen the next day, the rain has been pounding for hours. The wind whips through the streets, wailing as if lost. He has not yet reached the corner. The wind and rain have held him up. Finally, a minute late, he stops outside Fairhope Pharmacy, raises his arm, and waves, but there is no one between The Cat’s Meow and The Book Inn. The streets are deserted except for a lone woman at the corner, and her thin dress is whipped around her legs by the wind. He recognizes no one. The pain he feels at her absence confuses him, as if the rhythm of his life has skipped a beat, bruising the muscles of his soul.

The next day, the rain has stopped, but the streets are flooded. Debris fills the sidewalk ahead, and a woman fumbles her way around the mess. A few cars drive through the streets, and torrents of water spray up from their wheels. Many of the lights are broken. Some of the trees are down. He tries to notice none of this. He stops and waves, but across the street, no one is there. He feels a sting of regret, but already the memory of her is fading.
At three sixteen, he stands in front of the store. The locked doors and boarded windows bother him only a little.

The trees are still down the next day, and he acknowledges them now. He notices the broken streetlights, too. The people are back, but he tries to ignore them. At three fifteen, he stops and waves across the street. Between The Cat’s Meow and The Book Inn a woman takes a jogging step around the waste receptacle. He fails to notice. He waves now out of routine alone.

When he stops in front of the bookstore, he finds the boards are down, but the lights are off inside. He stands and looks at the reflections in the glass until three twenty-four and then leaves.

At three sixteen the next day, the lights are on inside the bookstore. People come and go, but he stands on the sidewalk and watches the reflections. Over the next few weeks, the clerks notice that no one comes in anymore to read The Old Man and The Sea. The battered copy is given away. No one notices that from three sixteen until three twenty-four someone-a man, a woman, a child, someone-stands outside the store and stares, every day.

In the glass he sees the reflection of the street behind him. He sees The Cat’s Meow and The Book Inn. He sees someone standing on the sidewalk, her back to him. He remembers seeing her in the glass before. He remembers seeing her as he waves. Each day-this woman, man, or child-whoever it is, it is the same person. She takes a jogging step around the receptacle and then stops.

In the window, he notices something different in her reflection. For a few days that difference bothers him, but then he understands that she is turning. Soon, after only a few weeks, she makes enough of a turn to face him.

Then the day comes when, as she turns to look at him, past him, at his reflection-their eyes meet. She looks into his eyes, soul to soul, being to being. He remembers having looked into someone’s eyes before. Out of the deepest recesses of his past, these new emotions stir old memories. He remembers the woman. He remembers the look. He remembers the love that burned in his heart. He looks at the reflection of the woman across the street. He looks away. He has been in love before and been hurt for it. At three twenty-four, he leaves.

The Land of Cotton

Carolina weeps,
her king has lost his crown.
Marion no longer spins yarn into gold.

Dixie floats on a breeze.
Old times remembered.
Villages are different now.

Mills silent, train depots deserted.
Futures sold out
with signatures on paper.
Cheap labor a world away
unraveled the fabric of lives.

Prosperity abandoned her children.
Live and die in Dixie.

Away down south
cities bleed,
hemorrhaging jobs.

On a frosty mornin,
the wind of change blows.
The populace shivers.

Look away
for Carolina weeps,
her king has lost his crown.
Marion no longer spins yarn into gold.

…Life Beyond the Pages of Grimm

Truth remains obliterated.
The real stories seldom
make it past civil liberties 101.

Lies hidden in the dust of centuries
gobble up bread crumbs of facts
and lead to a witch’s cottage still
occulted under a candy coated facade.

Life beyond the pages of Grimm

offers up the realization that justice
is far too often little more than a fairy tale
and that evil giants and monsters really do exist.

Armageddon and My Aunt Agnes

Hurricane season, Florida in the early 70’s
another storm demanded readiness.
Bottled water, canned goods, batteries, candles

An all too familiar drill

prompted by worry coupled
with remembrance of “the big one.”

Then, like today as the tempest

grew near winds picked up.
The beach was deserted save for fools
who watched the storm approach.

There waves thrashed with savage fury

as the beast rattled its atmospheric cage

and broken shreds of clouds scattered across the sky.

At my grandmother’s house, my aunt visiting from DC
grew apprehensive; seeing an opportunity, my grandmother
used this occasion to preach, bible in hand she was ready.

My aunt was not, and grew more frantic,

rational thought gave way to dread.
On the wall in my grandmother’s kitchen

she wrote the emergency number

looking on it as a beacon of comfort.

The only problem,

a rather important detail

forgotten by my aunt,

was that my grandmother

did not have a phone.

My grandfather thought it unnecessary,

after all there was one just down the road.

And he felt their ringing an unwelcome

intrusion in his life.

The unavailability of a phone

when brought home to my aunt resulted

in an epiphany of sorts.

Fear of Armageddon replaced

by dread of the approaching storm.

She rushed to our house,

secure in the knowledge

that she had the number.

Forget the fact the storm could knock

our phone line out, she was ready.

Downed trees and smashed windows
were the extent of that storm,

we were all thankful for that.

And that day and the fear that accompanied it

was forgotten with the passing sands of time.

But one thing remains yet

with the tenacity

of stubborn endurance,

the scrawled phone number

on my grandmother’s wall.

A reminder of storms and being ready.