She was standing before a bunch of children, pointing at a chalkboard, teaching them about Noah’s Ark. I slipped in to the room and sat in the back row.
We hug before she leaves to go grocery shopping. I pat her on the back when we embrace.
I always do this—the love-patting, I mean. I cannot give her a hug without gently patting her shoulders.
Long ago, during church services, I used to watch married men sit beside their wives. During the sermon, they would all do the same thing. They would place an arm around their spouse and give her a little “love-pat” on the shoulder.
And I remember the first time I ever got my chance to give a pat like this. I sat beside her in church, she was wearing a magnificent perfume. It was grapefruit, or tangerine. Her hair was shoulder-length, she had so much personality it leaked out of her smile—she has always had a slightly devious grin.
So there I was, listening to the sermon. I feigned a yawn. I put my arm around her.
Then, the preacher locked eyes with me. I choked. I chickened out. I withdrew my arm and aborted the mission.
The next Sunday, the
pastor was preaching about sin. He always preached on the subject of sin. Even when he was preaching to the elderly women’s missionary society.
That service, most folks within the congregation were wearing looks of remorse on their faces. Some were saying, “amen brother.” Others were nodding in agreement.
But not me. I was wearing the same look Muhammed Ali’s opponents wear after they sustain serious head trauma. I was so nervous beside this girl. My heart was pounding, my throat closed, I forgot my own Social Security number.
After service, I asked the girl: “You wanna go to lunch?”
“Sure,” she said.
“With me, I mean.”
“That’s what I thought you meant.”
I took her to a place where they served greasy sandwiches, wrapped in tin foil. We sat on a bench overlooking the bay. Afterward, she rested her head on my shoulder.…
It was one of the gifts the Good Lord gave him to make up for his heron legs. In high school, he’d pitched so fast that catchers used to tuck sponges into their mitts.
I'm on a screen porch with a radio. I’m listening to the Braves play Detroit in a spring-training baseball game. There’s a ghost with me. One I haven't seen in a long time.
The ghost makes remarks at the radio.
“If they had a good bullpen, they might have a chance this season…” he says.
Today, the ghost is chatty, I can't hear the game over his talking.
“Hey," the ghost goes on. "Remember the time we played ball after your grandaddy's wake?”
Of course I do.
"I was REALLY something, wasn't I?" says the ghost. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning.
And he's right. He was impressive. That afternoon, the men in the family got up a ball game. They played in an alfalfa field. My cousin played catcher. My daddy stood on a dirt mound, pitching. A longneck bottle beside his feet.
The game wasn't serious—it was a disorganized free-for-all. Kids alongside men. A second-grade girl playing shortstop.
That is, until one cousin stepped to the plate.
He was the same age as Daddy.
And I'll bet there's one like him in every American clan. A fella everyone praises. He’s nice-looking, played college ball, drives a nice car. Perfect teeth.
Gag me.
My father paled in comparison. He was a steelworker with long legs that didn’t fit his body. His clothes hung off his tall frame. He sweat for a living. The closest he ever got to college ball was watching the Sugar Bowl.
But, by damn, did he have an arm.
It was one of the gifts the Good Lord gave him to make up for his heron legs. In high school, he’d pitched so fast that catchers used to tuck sponges into their mitts.
Perfect Teeth stood at homeplate. And that's when the air got cold. The two middle-aged men stared each other down. If this game would've taken place a hundred…
I've sat in Bryant-Denny stadium and gone deaf. I've visited nursing homes and heard stories from the elderly—who know exponentially more than I do. I've laid good dogs in the dirt...
Obnoxious loud-talkers who sit at bars, rank right up there with dogs who lift their legs on your welcome mat.
Take, for instance, the fella at the bar beside me. He launched into a well-rehearsed speech about his world travels. First, the Alps. Then, Belgium, France, Italy, South Africa, Timbuktu.
By then, people at the bar had cleared out.
He asked me, “You done much traveling?”
I shook my head and said, "No, but I've woken up in a cattle pasture."
Loud-Talker rolled his eyes. “See?” he went on. “Now THAT'S your problem. You can't find your true-self unless you TRAVEL!”
So, I paid my tab and traveled my true-self
outside.
The truth is, I've never owned a passport, never stepped foot in Canada, and the closest I've come to self-discovery was South Texas in July, where I saw a real mirage.
I'm uninteresting on paper. I concede. But I regret nothing.
My life hasn't been bad. After all, I've known exceptional people. Like my friend who I'll call, Alan. Alan has no face. Nothing but eyes and pink flesh. This happened when he woke up in a burning mobile home. Pieces of the smoldering ceiling fell on his face…
I wish you could see this woman beside me. She's eating fried chicken like a starvation victim. And using her whole body to do it.
She takes a large bite, then wipes her chin with her sleeve. She pauses only to sip sweet tea. Then, it's back to destroying more drumsticks.
She stares at my discarded bones and says, “You like it?”
No.
I love it.
Her fried chicken is legendary. Hens everywhere from here to the next county marvel at this woman. That's because you've never seen anyone—not even the Colonel—fry a bird the way she does. Local poultry stand in line, volunteering their lives toward her cause.
It's no exaggeration:
she lives for food.
You'd never know it to look at her, but she plans her life around supper, her summers around vegetables. We once postponed a family vacation because tomato season wasn't yet in full swing.
You ought to travel with her. She hauls ten coolers wherever she goes. They're stocked with things like: buttermilk, eight kinds of cheese—nine counting pimento—chicken salad, tuna salad, coleslaw, potato salad, egg salad, pear salad, fruit salad, cucumber salad, Jell-O salad, and ambrosia.
She believes in the gospel according to whole…
