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Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Here is a flash from my past. A snip I wrote 3 yrars ago.
Hope Well
Hope Well
When I was a young woman, on a day
much like today with the winter trying to peak its head through autumn’s amber
coat, my father decided to take my younger brother and myself on an adventure.
Unlike the adventures he had taken us on in the past of things he had yet seen,
this was one of sharing his past.
“I’m
going to show you where I was born!” He said. So we set out on a 30 mile
journey in to the deep woods of West Georgia in search of his birthplace.
Along
the way we stopped to pick up my father’s oldest brother, Elmer. The brothers
were seven in all, my father being in the middle.
Continuing
our journey we pulled off of the Highway onto a dirt road passing saltbox
houses along the way. Expecting my father to pull into a driveway at any one of
them, knock on a door, exclaiming his birthright, then probably being let in.
As this was the custom in the south. Instead we drove on over the river onto a
slat bridge that made you pray for its reinforcement. The road ended at the
edge of a thick wall of Georgia Pine.
The
rest of the journey was to be on foot. Stepping out of my Dad’s truck I looked
back on the River we had just crossed. An outlet of the Chattahoochee River,
was rushing over the rocks with never ending determination to reach its
destination. Glancing up I took in the luminous view of the Mill; built a few
years prior to the Great Depression. Those that built it never imagining the
sorrows that it would house. Now it stood hollow and empty looking down upon
the water that once gave it life.
We
turned to head into the thick woods. I was never the outdoors type so I let the
men lead, following my brother who was plotting future adventures of hunting
and fishing in the area. Walking the never ending hills that had been deemed
useless at the beginning of this country’s formation; it was too hilly for
farming and too much trouble to build on.
My
Uncle turned, and gave us a stern warning, “Watch out for the wells! Break a
leg if you’re not careful! Must be about 60 of ’um.” He said, while checking his footing in a tuft
of brown leaves.
Curious
I asked, “How do you know how many wells there are?”
He
turned and said,” I was there when they was dug. Every one of ’um hit rock.” I
imagined him a nine year old boy watching the men dig over and over to no
avail.
Over
two hundred yards away from the rolling river that could still be heard but not
seen, my father and uncle began to slow their pace and run their hands over the
trunks of trees. Squinting as he rubbed the trunk of an elm, my father asked, “Is
this where Jimmy is? I know Frank is by a maple.” My Uncle walked over and
searched diligently on the bark of the tree finally finding the hint of a worn
carved cross even with his shoulder. I became aware of the ghosts of many left
behind in graves without markers. Friends and still born babes who had not
survived the unsaid holocaust of our great nations poor.
It
was then that I realized that my Father had been born in a shantytown, the
places in our south that have no historical plaques marking their paths. What
we were looking for was the remnants of a shack put together with scrap lumber,
tar paper and tin. The first time I had seen one was when I was five, my father
moved us to a small town in Georgia where he had bought a truck stop. One
Saturday he took me to work with him for the day and on the way we stopped at
the tar paper shack of a man named Coot.
Coot
worked for my Dad pumping Gas and cleaning up. I offered to wait in the car but
Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He knocked and pushed in at the same time saying, “It’s
me Coot!” The old man was lying on a cot and seeing my father he rolled and
turned himself to sit up. Trying to stand he slipped back down. He was drunk
and teetering. He still managed to say,” Hey, how y'all do? Can I get you
something?” To my utter horror, my father said,” Yeah, I sure would like some
coffee, Coot.” At the time I thought, how rude could my father get? It took a
lifetime for me to realize that he was trying to pull a man at his lowest state
out, either by shaming him with my presence or putting him back into a sober
routine. Teaching me the spectrum of life, and to respect every man, was just
killing two birds with one stone.
At
the height of the depression mill owners took on desperate workers from all
over the south. Whole families would travel in hopes of finding work to
survive. Men knowing if they left their loved ones behind that they had less
chance than if they were with them. People with little more than the clothes on
their backs, arriving at their destination, only to find all the housing full
and a man pointing to a pile of scrap lumber telling them to make do.
These
workers were tenants of the mill paying ten to forty percent, the Devil’s
tithe, of their wages to live on the property. The pay was daily, as people
came and went without ever knowing if there would be enough work the following
day or if they would live through the night. Every able body in the family
worked. If not at the mill then anywhere he or she could. Women would warm
benches at the Mill in the grim hope to fill a spot that no man was around to
fill for half the wage. Children would sweep and load spools.
My
Father and Uncle forged on, as my brother and I followed. Having walked the
same path daily for years in their childhood, either to work, or the few months
of school they had to teach them enough not to be any man’s fool. They came to
a halt in a grove of pine that was no more than three years old. My father
stood, bewildered,” This is where it was. I thought there would be something? I
didn’t think it would be standing after all these years but still something!”
He kicked the ground as if he would unearth a treasure from his past. Nothing,
his birthplace was long gone; taken away, either by needy neighbors for
kindling or ordered whipped away by the owners of the mill. Moments passed in
silence until my Uncle finally spoke,” We can show them the rock.” he said. My
father was awoken from a memory that had hold of him. His face turned to
excitement and he exclaimed, “I’d forgot about that!”
As
we followed the men dutifully my brother asked aloud, “What’s so great about a
rock?” My Uncle just smiled and said, “You’ll see!” wanting to humor him we
continued on.
We
headed down a steep slope, till we came to the edge of a dried creek bed. I saw
my Uncle pause; stare into the gully as if to reflect over the grave of a loved
one. The men leapt the three foot gap from lip to lip of the trench as I
crawled down and then up the roots of trees to cross. Catching up, I heard my
Uncle’s story of the women and children who dug this man made creek. Unable to
spring a well, they had to divert the water from the river itself. The young
boys dug the trench with whatever they could find; and the little girls would
watch the children that were too young to watch themselves. Babes not yet
weaned, strapped to their mothers, as they rolled stones away. It was young
boys mostly that tried to dig the wells. Suddenly I realized that my Uncle’s
reflection had been on a monument to his childhood contribution to his family’s
survival. It was long since dried from the lowering of the river.
My
brother persisted, “What does this rock look like?” My father smiled and
answered, “It’s a river rock.” My brother looked at my Dad like he was nuts. “We
saw plenty of those near the truck.” he said. My father smiled and said,” This
one’s special. It’s a praying rock!” My brother replied, “Rocks can’t pray!”
We
made our way to the top of the last hill before the river. My Uncle walked
towards an indention in the side of the hill. Once closer I discovered that the
indention was an abandoned attempt at digging the creek. It was here that he
searched with a stick to sweep the brush, shifting years of debris. He then
began to uncover a flat rock smoothed by the wear of the river’s water, at one
time coming to where we stood.
To
my amazement his efforts uncovered a pair of hands imprinted and indented into
this rock. My Uncle smiled, and said “This is it, The Prayer Rock. We found it
in 1930 while we were digging this creek. Our Mama, who had had an Indian
grandmother, said it was a Praying Rock. They’d bear down on it and pour all
their sorrows into it. After that we heard stories of them being all over the
South.”
I
examined the rock and it had the formation and texture of an ordinary river
rock. No signs of it being hardened clay or left over mortar from the bridge.
My
father put his hands into the imprinted ones; as if to measure his growth from
the first time he had. My brother did the same. I asked out loud, “Shouldn’t
this be in a museum?”
My
uncle bent back down over the stone and began replacing the brush and dirt he
had removed. “Worse thing you can do in this world is take another man’s hope.”
An
acceptance came over me, that my uncle was right. The wonderment of the
survival of one man’s prayer outweighed any scientific explanation I could
think of.
Thank you Dad and Uncle Elmer
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Occupied Wall Street
Occupied Wall Street
Jim
awoke with a deep breath. Today was the day. All his efforts, the tedious
research, every call and e-mail as well as the traveling would pay off. He showered
and dressed in his Ralph Lauren suit, as he was told a young man would be taken
more seriously in traditional clothing. He put on his Kenneth Cole square toed
Oxfords, because he couldn’t for the life of him sacrifice comfort. The excitement
built in him to a degree he had not anticipated. He left his studio apartment with
a skip in his stride. What a great day.
The Barista at the Starbucks started his order
as she saw him pushing the door. He would have them bag it as usual learning
early on that the brew was much too hot to drink till he reached his desk at
work. The eight minute walk was lengthened by those nuts in tents. He wouldn’t
worry about that silliness today. Today was payday, the recognition he deserved
was about to come. He kept his stride as he fantasized of next months’ vacation,
Vegas. Yes and the girls they would be all over him. His new found wealth would
bring him great joy. He finally made the turn to the back entrance of his
building, totally avoiding the riffraff in the front.
A freshman
underwriter hardly saw a package of this magnitude. All said and done it would
be multi billion. He couldn’t wait to rub it in his brother’s face. The back
elevator wasn’t as modern as the front but it was actually closer to his
cubical. Up to the thirtieth floor; the doors opened to a quite hall. Left then
right to the second cubical on the right he hurried. In habit he sat his coffee
down then his briefcase. In that moment he noticed all of his personal items
were removed and neatly stacked in a box that was placed on the floor underneath
his desk. Wow, he thought to himself, I never expected to be moved to the next
floor so soon.
In that moment
gazing down on the box he felt a hand grab his arm. Startled he turned to look
upon the face of his director Phillip. Phillip’s stern look gave Jim a fright.
Phillip’s grip tightened, “You have to leave the premises. Now! “. Jim was in
shock as Phillip picked up the box of personal items and shoved it at him. “What
happened?” he asked. Phillip grabbed Jim’s briefcase and threw it on top of the
box in his hands. “No explanation is necessary. If you would like to file a
complaint, you may contact our lawyers.” Phillip firmly guided Jim back to the elevator.
Looking back at the desk that was once his, Jim saw his lonely Starbucks bag
sitting on the edge. The ride down brought a sinking feeling as he retraced his
figures and confirmations trying to piece together what had happened.
Back on the
street in a daze he met a coworker named Dave. He caught the fellow’s eye just
as he was going to lower it. “What happened?” Dave looked Jim in the eye with earnest sympathy.
“They
flagged the package this morning. The big guys never take the fall. Any name on
it will do. Just don’t make a fuss or you’ll never work again.” He said as he
walked away. Jim turned, “I’ll never be able to work on Wall Street again
anyway!” Dave turned back with a grin, “I meant even at McDonalds.”
Monday, October 1, 2012
A Place
for My Father
I held you
tight, trying my best to keep you warm. The longer I sat there in shock, the
colder you became. You said that you’d be alright, that you had just pulled a
muscle. I awoke to the sound of your violent convulsions. Now I sit with your
lifeless body in my arms. The fire from last night is almost out now; its glow
becoming dim. You were the strongest man I ever knew. The times you picked me
up and threw me in the air. When the plant laid you off and Mom left, you
promised that you would never leave. When they foreclosed on the house and we
lived in the car, you made me feel safe. That was almost two years ago.
You never
denied me anything. Every Christmas under the tree was full. My soccer games
that you never missed. The last bit of food we had when we had no idea when
there would be more. The car long
abandoned and pushed out of sight. We walked this great land together. The land
you defended; the land that had forgotten you. The calls for help were never
returned. Agency after agency put us on lists. Family had no room and friends
were no longer friends. We walked trying to hide my youth so I would not be
taken away.
In one more
month I turn sixteen. The plan was, with two of us working, we could make a
home. With no physical address and a pay as you go phone, no one would hire
you. We did odd jobs to eat; things that no one else would do. I would finish
school and things would be okay. We would have had a yard and a dog again. If I
called the veterans, would they bury you? You had a fear of cremation, I
remember you saying. If I buried you there in the woods, would I remember
where? I rocked back and forth praying
for the first time in almost a year. A flash of the graveyard that we had past when
entering this small town came to my mind.
Almost 2 AM, I wrapped you up tight in your blanket and began our last
journey.
The cemetery
was large, with graves as far as I could see. In far distance I spotted a
freshly dug grave. Walking upon it, I saw that the vault was not in place. I
would have to work fast with only a camp shovel. A rope tied to a head stone to
make my way out. Three hours till dawn, I dug as deep as I could. I pulled you
down and gazed upon your face. I shook you one last time and put my ear to your
heart, in hopes that I was wrong. Finally, I pinned your medals to your chest
that I had pulled from your ruck sack. I laid you straight and folded your
arms. There was no time to mourn. I wrapped your blanket around you as tight as
I could, then begin to cover you with dirt. The smell of pine sap came off of
your boots. From our last job that had taken your life. Slowly it faded as I
covered you, then smoothed the earth in hope that no one would notice.
I waited till
twilight there by your side; remembering the hardship that we had endured those
two years. The people who hated and feared us, treating us like animals. I
would rather be an animal; they show one another more loyalty. I hid in a grove
of trees as I watched the vault lowered. Then, knowing you were safe, I found a
spout to wash up. I put on your good shirt, the one rolled to keep clean for
interviews that never came. Upon my return the wait was not long. The cars
lined up as far as the eye could see. The coffin was flag draped as four
Marines bared it. Guns were fired and a horn was blown. It put my mind at ease
of the worry that the graves occupant would be offended. I knew that he would
not leave a brother behind.
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