Carrie

"Pancho needs your prayers, its true

but save a few for Lefty too

he just did what he had to do,
and now he's growing old."



Towns Van Zant

"Pancho and Lefty"

recorded by Willy Nelson, and others

April 2024, Piggott

West out of Kennett, across the St Francis into Arkansas; Clay County, to be precise.  Flatland, straight roads, all running either North/South or East/West.  Mixed crops, corn, beans, cotton and others, good black land.  Once across the river and its accompanying levee, road turns sharply north for a mile or so then ninety degrees left; pick the first road to the right and stay with it till you hit US 62.  Left for maybe a mile and a half and you are there.
Piggott Arkansas.  Sort of a sleepy county seat still hanging on at the edge of the string of red gravel hills called Crowley 's Ridge. Population around 3500, a growth of maybe 1000 in the seventy years since high school.
"Slow down, Jim, or you might miss it. And watch out for the traffic light."  Steve is cranked again, obviously excited by being here and soaking up the familiar sights. Town hasn't changed much he says..
Jim is recording.
"Nephew lives just over there, only family name still in the county, I think, maybe not, could be a couple that I've lost track of.  High school there on the left, old school that I went to burned years ago. It had been there at least since the 30's.  Had teachers who spent their life there, knew my brother who was there ten years before, always asking, 'you as smart as your brother?'  How do you answer that?  Maybe I was, but probably lazier, always looking for the simplest and easiest way to get anything done."
He was on a roll now.  " See the bank over there? Remember the guy I told you about that bought the Wilson plantation down near Memphis?  He owned the bank here.  It used to be down on the corner across from the Court house. Saw Gaylon at one of the reunions, must've been '01, always had them around the Fourth of July to coincide with the annual picnic, traditionally the time every year when the folks who live elsewhere come back home to visit."
"Didn't get to talk much at the rubber chicken dinner; reunions in a dry county are a bit boring, but he gave me a couple of phone numbers and asked me to call him the next day, July third, I think it was.  I called and we talked for quite a spell; I jokingly asked where one could get a drink around here."
"go to  Missouri'", he says, then "I have to be down there tomorrow, on the 4th, meet me over at the bank.'" "Bank's closed."  says I,  "Tomorrow is the 4th."
"I'll call the manager, have her open it, got a nice conference room."
 "See you tomorrow 'bout one."  He hung up.
"He showed up, as promised, with a fifth of Jack Daniels, and the doors were open, as promised.  It was a wonderful afternoon."
"Lot of stories here; I only know a bit about just a few.  For example, that's a relatively new court house there on the square; old one burned down, years back, accidentally, I suppose.  Lot of local politics practiced here, some of it not too pretty. Pretty basic stuff, as were the private lives, but a bit raw on occasion."

-------------------------------------









Spring, 1939, West of Pollard

She knew they were coming today, the Judge had told her that at the hearing and the Sheriff's letter last week had told the date.

Rising early, dressed in her best Sunday dress and walking shoes complete with silk stockings and a wrap for her shoulders against the spring chill.  A cup of black coffee and a warmed over biscuit with jam was all there was for breakfast; she fixed the same for Walter.  Neither was hungry, for some reason.
Walter busied himself with the morning chores; she sat at what she called her library table in the living room, watched the road and remembered.

Remembered how fate had brought her here and twisted her world.

............

Oldest child of an immigrant German grocer who left the old country with his wife and baby girl in search of a better life in America.  Heinrich Grossmann had served in the Kaiser's navy, learned a trade and lived in constant fear of a recall to service.  He had no desire to fight and believed a better life was to be had in the new land.  Shortening the name, he became Harry Gross and established a thriving grocery in the small town of Dexter Missouri.  His accent earned him the nickname "Dutch".  The Gross household soon had three other children, all boys; they occupied a fashionable home in the better section.  They maintained their faith through the small but strong Catholic congregation.  Carrie helped  her mother in the management of the home, and, as the boys grew older, became the primary manager.  A live-in domestic helper, a teenage young girl from one of the farm communities came to live with them and became not only a helper, but a friend to Carrie. Lela worked in this role until she was almost twenty, married and moved away.  She and Carrie became a part of a group of young people that included, among others, Lela's future husband, Henry and her older brother, Walter.

As others married or moved away, the group gradually broke up.  Her brothers grew up and dispersed; she found herself without friends, lonely and little purpose in life.  She found in Walter the perfect complement to her forceful, "take charge" personality.  Walter was a dreamer, younger than Carrie, bright, capable and well-read, but without any particular goals or ambitions.  They were married in fine fashion and in the tradition of her church.

Through her correspondence she had learned that her friend, Lela and her husband had purchased their own farm in Arkansas, and, there was an adjoining farm just to the west that was now for sale.  On a hunch, Carrie and Walter travelled to Arkansas.  It was fifty acres of bottom land and had small three room house and a barn for animals.  Using the majority of her dowry, they made a substantial down payment and signed a note for the remainder.  They had their own home and were able to furnish it with furniture contributed by her family.  Life was good.

But Carrie didn't fit in.  She was a stranger, a city girl who knew nothing of the farm life and consequently was not able to provide much help in the crops.  She was Catholic, now living in a strong, vocal, fundamentalist protestant community; the nearest Catholic congregation thirty miles away.  Although she had no accent as such, her German background sometimes showed up in her grammar.  For example, she had the German language trait of assignment of a male or female gender to almost everything; a snake was "she" and her syntax sometimes reversed the subject and predicate of the sentence.  Her life had always been one of daily contact with people; here the nearest neighbor was at least a quarter mile away; no other homes were visible from her window.  Her friend Lela lived on the adjoining farm, but her growing family and helping with the farm took almost all her time. 

The extroverted, gregarious Carrie was lonely.  She remembered the good times, rare but poignant, like when Lela's oldest, a daughter, was married.  A simple ceremony, conducted in the parent's home, with the youngest, Steven aged five, screaming at the top of his lungs because his sister was leaving.  She was able to quiet the child and allow the marriage to proceed.  She liked Stevie, and he took to her attentions. She had no children of her own, so they became close. He liked Aunt Carrie's  playing with him and Uncle Walter told him stories.  He was happy.

When an enterprising owner of an aging school bus began a two trip per day bus service between the county's twin county seats, Carrie found that, by walking the half mile to the highway, she could take the morning bus to town, spend a few hours in the library, and return in time to prepare the evening meal.  She became friends with the librarian and, on a slow weekday, could spend the day in conversation and learn all the current gossip..  This included the real and imagined political exploits and schemes of local government.

At last, something she understood and was interested in.  She saw wrongdoing, knew it was wrong and set about correcting it.

She wrote letters to local officials, went to meetings, met with officials.
She was advised to desist; she ignored them and wrote more letters to higher officials. 
She was ignored.
She was investigated.  Who was this person?  New to the county, female, Catholic, German background, meddlesome, persistent. Was she a spy for the NAZI's? Was she unbalanced?
They fought back; filed a request that the court seek medical opinion of her stability and if warranted, declare her legally incompetent and order appropriate treatment. 
There was a hearing, testimony by county officials, opinions of doctors.
The County Judge was an elected official.  All the doctors worked and lived in town.
She refused to speak.

The Court found her to be legally incompetent, and of questionable mental stability.  She was remanded to the State Mental Hospital in Little Rock for examination and treatment as needed.
Sheriff was ordered to make the necessary arrangements and deliver the patient to Little Rock as quickly as possible.  It was common knowledge that the "treatments" carried out at the State Mental Hospital were crude, bordering on barbaric and sadism. Everyone knew of someone who had been sent there; hardly anyone knew of anyone who had returned, improved or not.  Carrie was released on her own recognizance and ordered to not leave the county.  She would be notified when the arrangement were complete.  The letter had come last week from the sheriff saying he would come today.

...........

She watched the two figures approach, walking gingerly and sidestepping the muddier portions and puddles from last night's rain.  Vehicle access to the property was by way of a dirt and gravel road from the highway downhill to the farmhouse on the property just east.  From there, through the barn lot and downhill to the property line, then a stretch of flat to the little three room house that she called home.  This access allowed automobiles as far as the neighboring farmhouse, and maybe on a dry day, on down to the next farm.  The sheriff had wisely chosen to leave his car at the gate to the barnyard and walk the quarter mile Walter and Carrie's home. 
She recognized the County Sheriff, a middle aged man, easily six feet, heavy but not fat, fresh khakis, short jacket, semi-cowboy hat and his badge pinned loosely on the left front shirt pocket.  He carried no weapons.  His companion was a young deputy, maybe twenty or so, similarly dressed, except for the hat for which he substituted a short billed driving cap, favored by policemen and cab drivers everywhere; he, too, was tall, but thin.  His wide belt held a holster on the left side, flap buttoned down and mostly covered by his open short jacket.

Walter opened the door.  Sheriff glanced into the living room,
"Morning, Walter, may we come in?"
Walter nodded, pushed back the door and stepped aside.

"Miz. Carrie", touching the brim of his hat. "This is Deputy Johnson, I suppose you know why we're here?"
She nodded acknowledgement. "I'll get my things." Placing the wrap across her shoulders, she picked up a small carpetbag and her purse. "I'm ready."
To Walter, Sheriff says, "You can come with us as far as town, I'll have one of the boys bring you home."
With Walter carrying her purse the little group walked slowly up the hill to Sheriff's car, deputy carrying the carpetbag.  Sheriff sat up front, Walter and Carrie in the backseat, Johnson drove.
There was no conversation.

Seated in the sheriff's office in the courthouse, they waited while Sheriff collected his paperwork and made a few calls.  Deputy Johnson chatted quietly with the on-duty deputy/clerk/dispatcher.

Carrie cleared her throat, "Excuse me, Deputy, will he be long?"
"No ma'am, I don't think so."
"Will this be a long drive?"
"Three hours, four at most."
"Would it be OK if I went to the bathroom?"
Johnson looked at the dispatcher, who shrugged.
"Sure, I'll just go along, mind the door for you,"

The ladies bathroom was across the hall and three doors down, near the east entrance.  She went inside; Johnson stood across the hall from the bathroom door and nearer the entrance.  The door to Sheriff's office opened, dispatcher's head popped out, looked up and down the hall, "Johnson?"
"Yeah?, what is it?"
"Sheriff wants to know where you might have put the lady's file."
"It's in the file cabinet."
"Well, he can't find it. Can you come get it for him?"

Johnson glanced at the bathroom door, then back at the dispatcher, hesitated a moment, then walked back to  the office.  Passing the dispatcher at the door, he said, "Keep an eye on the bathroom door for me, will you?  She's still inside"., and walked through to the back office.  Sounds of file drawers opening and closing came from the other room, finally he emerged with a thick folder, placed it on the dispatcher's desk.  "Somebody moved it.  She still in there?"
"Nothing's changed".
" been a while, suppose she's OK?  Should I check?"
"I would."
He knocked.  No answer. Knocked louder, called her name. Still no answer.
He tried the door.  Locked!  He called again, knocking even louder.
Looking at the dispatcher, almost in panic says, " Get the Sheriff, and see if you can find the key to this place."
Sheriff appeared, Johnson says, "Did he find the key?"
"He's looking. What the Hell happened?"
"Nothing, I hope."

.............



After the OK, Carrie had picked up her purse and walked down the hall to the ladies room, Johnson following.  She closed the door; the deputy took up his post across the hall and near the East door.  She took off her right shoe and removed her silk stocking, then stepped to the mirror and straightened her hair. 
As a child, her father had shown her knots he had learned in the navy; one was a slip knot, which, if tied properly, was almost impossible to untie, short of cutting the rope.  He had tied the knot around her wrist and challenged her to untie it.  After failing the challenge, she had insisted that she be shown how it was tied, and why it was impossible to loosen.  She never forgot. 

She knew that what she was about to do was a terrible sin in the eyes of her church, but she also knew what lay in store for her at the hospital.  She prayed for forgiveness, then, watching the mirror to be sure it was done correctly, she pulled the stocking into a rope and tied it around her neck with the slipknot, then, using her purse for a pillow, lay down on the tile floor, straightened her clothing, and pulled with all her strength to tighten the rope.  She folded her hands across her chest, closed her eyes and waited.  It did not take long.

.............



The key eventually arrived, Sheriff unlocked the door, calling her name.  He stepped inside and discovered Carrie on the floor, clothing and hair unruffled, right shoe and stocking removed, stocking knotted about her neck, face discolored but with a strangely calm expression.  He stared in disbelief, glared at Johnson, and, muttering an obscenity, knelt beside the body. A quick check revealed no pulse, no breathing. 

He tried the knot, failed. "Johnson, gimme your knife!.  And get Doc Barnes, and the Coroner. and don't talk to nobody 'till I get the whole story.  Move!"

Artificial respiration was unknown in 1939; she was beyond help.  Walter had watched the entire scene in stunned silence.  Sheriff  discovered him; turned to the dispatcher, "Take Walter back to the office, get him some coffee; stay with him."

Coroner's Jury said it was suicide.  Some wondered.

She returned to her home town for her funeral and burial.

Walter sold the farm; moved back to Dexter.

There were many questions; precious few answers.
 

"She only did what she had to do.  

(instead of growing old.)"

----------------------------------------

Steve was quiet now.  "I'm tired; don't want to spend the night here, lets go back to Kennett."
Jim switched off the recorder, drove in silence around the square once more, then headed East on 62.



Lela

Lela

When I was a little bitty baby,

my mama done rock me in the cradle,

in them old cotton fields back home.

"Cotton Fields",  Leadbelly, 1940

April, 2024

The "Bootheel" of Missouri is part of the floodplain of the Mississippi River.  It is flat. Its Eastern limit is in Tennessee; the Western border is in Arkansas.

At this point in the history of the continent, the river flows peacefully about five or so miles from the eastern boundary of the floodplain marked by the hills that run from Dyersburg northward.  The western boundary is a string of hills running southwest to northeast, about 40 to 50 miles west of the eastern boundary which is known as Crowleys Ridge. This area is flat and includes the St. Francis river, a "yazoo" stream, running almost parallel to the Mississippi and joining it farther downstream.  Levees, set at varying distances from the stream itself, limit flooding to a much narrower plain in all but the most extreme "storm of the century" cases.  Several Southwest/Northeast man-made ditches, running in a straight line, take care of the excess runoff and keep these flatlands farmable.  The land is fertile sandy loam, built up and nourished by the river for hundreds of years.  This was (and is) cotton country.  Other cash crops are grown now, but in the "good times" after WWI and before the great depression, Cotton was King and the crops were largely labor intensive.

------------------------------

Breakfast was good.  They had decided to forego the "continental" breakfast that Motel 8, (or was it 6) had so graciously provided and chose instead to dine at a local diner on State Highway 84 at I-55.

Steve pushed back his chair, took another sip of coffee, "Sorry about the mixup about the exits yesterday, I had forgotten that 412 bypasses Hayti and links up with the I-155 spur going across the bridge to Dyersburg.  State 84 used to be the only one."

"No problem.  Where to today?"

"West on US 412 (Mo 84) to Kennett, then maybe southwest down toward Senath.  This is where family as I know it starts.  Ready?"

Back in the truck.  Steve is pumped; recorder is running. The road is straight as an arrow and points due East and West.  It is still the cool of the day; temperature still in the 60's, sun's behind them and the windows are down.  The land is flat, punctuated by fencerows, drainage ditches and the occasional farmhouse. As they cross the double tracks of the Cotton Belt line and head west, he begins: 

"Actually there are two towns here, Hayti and the optimistically named 'Hayti Heights'.  There's not hill in twenty miles.  Don't know the details, but Hayti Heights appears to be quite a story of neighborhood development.  Originally a low income part of town that was not allowed to be a part of town, 'The Heights' was a classic example of 'the other side of the tracks', peopled by the remnants of the farm labor force and with no discernible infrastructure, that rose up and did something about it.  They incorporated the area into a separate town, which made them eligible for state and federal grants, then proceeded to develop the much needed water and sewer systems, pave the streets and provide the services and governance of a legitimate town.  The streets have names like Lincoln, Kennedy, King, etc.  I suspect there are some interesting stories here about some of the 'farm' residents who woke up one morning and found themselves a resident of the new town and subject to the ordinances and taxes of the new city, whose officials were not exactly what they were used to.  I may have my facts screwed up;  look them up sometime, there may be some good material here for your thesis.  There seems to be a large and thriving church influence here; it may have been the prime motivator."

"See those fencerows?  They're important.  Maybe 'hedgerows' is a better term.  Didn't used to be that way, farmers kept them cleaned of weeds and trees to give more growing room for the cotton.  Cotton had to be kept clean of grass.  Some even used geese in the cotton fields, geese eat grass, won't touch a weed.  To a goose, a cotton plant is a weed, so if you clip the primary wing feathers and install some type of fence around the field, even as simple as a tight line of sunflowers, you have yourself a genuine, first class field hand that will  keep the grass out of the cotton.  Half a dozen geese could take care of quite a large field.  Work cheap too."

"Trouble with flat land and no hedgerows is sandstorms.  Used to have them here all the time, mostly in the spring before the crops were big enough to provide ground cover.  Given a steady west wind, sand dries out and begins to move, creating a fast moving flow of surface sand which can quickly saw off the young tender plants just as slick as you please, leaving you a bare field sand flat in a matter of hours.  Cotton had to be planted as early as possible to take advantage of the longest possible growing season and the higher prices of the early market.  Replanting may not have been an option."

 

"Sand could and did infiltrate everything, the house, the food, their clothing, when the wind blew. There primarily two ways to combat it.  In the short term the farmer could mask himself and his team of mules in an effort to keep the sand out of the nose and mouth, then plow continuously, creating furrows which in turn would stop the sand flow and keep the plants from being destroyed.  The furrows would soon fill and the flow would return; one had to keep plowing so long as the wind blew.  For the long haul, the hedgerows did the trick.  They were let grow, and sandstorms are now just a memory for the older folk.  They just don't happen anymore." 

 

----------------------------------

 

Stopped at a traffic light at city limits of Kennett, Jim notes that the signs indicate a split in the two routes they're on.  US  412 veers left; State 84 continues West.  He looks at Steve, questioning.  "Stay with 412, couple of miles, look for Local road "Y", and turn left again.  Want to show you something.  'Maybe two more miles, you'll see county road 549C, small sign.  Go right; probably still a dirt road." 

They missed 549 on the first try, backtracked and turned west on the hard packed sand and dirt.  After about a quarter mile, and after passing a small, well kept cemetery on the left, the road turned left along the western edge of the cemetery.  Near the cemetery's southern border, an ageing gateway with a rusted proclaimed this to be Friendship Cemetery.  "Pull in the gate and drive all the way back."
 

Steve was out of the truck, almost before it stopped rolling, circling the tailgate and walking briskly toward the center, obviously searching for something.  Jim followed, a few steps behind.

Steve stopped, surveyed the area, then looked down at a small stone.  Most of the headstones were quite old, dating back to the early 1900's.  This one, however was of newer vintage and of a modern style.  It read simply, " Margie Lea, infant dau. of H.I and L.M., Oct 26, 1920 - Oct 10, 1921".
"My older sister", Steve says, without looking up, "First child",
"Stone doesn't look like 1921."
" 't isn't. More like 1940's. My uncle Bud and his wife also lived over here in the early 20's; had two children, boys I think; lost both of them at around the same time; never had any more.  They were buried here too until sometime in the 1940's when they moved them to Piggott.  My dad came with the workmen who moved them, mostly to see just what remained.  Maybe Margie could also be moved.  He said there was only a shovelful of darkened earth and a couple of buckles from the casket; nothing more; nothing to move, She was gone, so they had the stone placed there and left her in peace.  I think he did right."

----------------------------------------

 

November, 1921 

 



The sun had gone down half an hour ago.

She was alone; everyone else had gone to supper.
. 
There was no hurry; no one waited for her at the house.  He wasn't back yet; maybe there was a long line at the gin.

She had just finished her last two rows of cotton and struggled to add the stuffed sack to the pile of those left by the neighbors with whom they traded work and the few field hands they had been able to get from the "colored" section of town.  He had taken the latest wagon load to the gin; near fifteen hundred pounds, the amount required to produce a five hundred pound bale, the understood "standard".  The sacks, each marked with its owner's name or initials, would be weighed in the morning and the pounds gathered (picked) by each person duly recorded.  There would be cash from selling the cotton; he would pay the pickers tomorrow.  This would be the last picking of the year; maybe one more bale in the field.  With a little luck it would all be out by Thanksgiving.

Maybe he had been robbed.  Or hurt.  Maybe -----.

She covered the pile of sacks with a tarp to keep off the morning dew, took off the bonnet, loosed the tight bun of waist length hair, wiped her face and neck with the apron and began a slow walk to the house.  She liked the quiet time, but the encroaching darkness made it sad as well.

She missed her baby.

Not quite a year old, and now she was gone.  Margie had been a happy and healthy baby.  Coal black hair like her parents, nice smile, and growing fast. Thirteen pounds at three weeks of age, measured by the cotton scales.  Born at picking time last year.  (That had been their first crop as tenant farmers on a farm of several hundred acres, parceled out to the sharecroppers, usually forty acres to a family, more if the family was large.  Landowner would furnish housing, finance the seed, fertilizer groceries other necessities then collect at harvest time along with his share of the sales.)

The house was dark, unlocked.  Still enough light to find the coal oil lamp and the matches.  She lit the wick, adjusted its height for maximum light, returned the globe and set it in the center of their small table, pulled one of the cane seat ladder back chairs and sat down for a rare moment of quiet.  Staring at the flickering flame of the lamp, she replayed the recent past.

"Where is that man?  I should be doing the evening chores.  Guess it can wait a few minutes, I'll help when he gets home."

Life had been a whirlwind the last two years.  Married around Christmas, year before last, with no honeymoon to speak of, gathering some basic farming equipment and meager furniture, bedding and supplies, packing and shipping everything including the mules (by rail, no less) from Dexter down to Senath, then cleaning and moving into the small three room "shotgun" tenant house.  Before the spring planting they had discovered her pregnancy, so by harvest time she was no longer able to help in the fields.  Normally he would be in the field at sunup and she would have spent the morning preparing and serving a hearty breakfast. After clearing and cleaning up, she would straighten
up the house and prepare dinner, the mid-day meal.  After clearing the dinner and washing dishes she would join her husband in the field, "chopping" cotton and hoeing corn or other crops along with the field hands or neighbors.  Supper, the evening meal, usually after dark, would often be cold leftovers.

Carrying the added cumbersome weight of pregnancy, her participation in the field work was limited as the year wore on.  Was able to work some in the first picking, but the stooping required was difficult and by early October her field work ended. 

Margie was born near the end of the month with an older neighbor lady serving as midwife.  She ate well and grew rapidly: by Spring she could accompany her mother to the fields, taking her afternoon nap in the shade while her mother worked nearby. This Spring had been rough; late frost, help was hard to find, too much rain, and then the sandstorm.  Sand in everything, food, drinks, clothes, everything.  Crops were "laid by" by the end of June and there was time to regroup, relax and repair, getting ready for the Fall and harvest.  July saw the first blooms on the cotton plants and by September the bolls were matured and beginning to crack open. Picking would probably start before the end of the month.
 
Margie became ill.  High fever, vomiting, unchecked diarrhea.  Nothing seemed to help.  An infant's tolerance for dehydration is limited; there is no reserve of liquids.  Advice of neighbors, lady at the store in Caruth, and finally the doctor in Senath, all to no avail.  She died in early October, just after the first picking.

The tenant's share for the first bale of cotton went to the funeral director.  Cheap wood casket, one day visitation, short service by a local minister at the funeral home.  Henry, with the help of neighbors, had dug her grave in the soft, sandy soil of Friendship Cemetery, and there, on a hot, Sunday afternoon in October, surrounded by cotton fields and just short of her first birthday, Margie Lea was laid to rest. 

Dear God, she thought, that was hardly a month ago.

The sound of the team and wagon on the road broke into her thoughts.  Due to the late hour, he had come straight home instead of parking the wagon in the field and bringing the team to the barn.  Do that in the morning.  With the milk pail in one hand and the "slop" bucket in the other, she went to help with the chores.  Team to be unhitched, unharnessed and fed, pigs to be fed, cow to be fed and milked; it was done in less than half an hour and they retired to the still quiet house.  She examined the cupboard and produced the available food.  "Got some cornbread left from dinner, half an apple pie from Sunday, plenty of milk, will that do?
"Sure, that's fine".  He had seated himself at the table and was nervously emptying his pockets.  In the manner of most farmers, he wore a long sleeved denim shirt and overalls. The lower pockets of the loose fitting overalls might hold a pocket knife, a bandana handkerchief and some often needed tools, pliers, small adjustable wrench, or maybe just a 7/16"-1/2" open end.  Things of value, such as a snap open pocketbook or wallet, record book, pencil, tickets, receipts and other paper would be in the bib pocket, where they were somewhat protected from sweat and did not encumber or interfere with movement.

He spread the papers on the table.  "Got a good price for the cotton."
"Took long enough, I was beginning to worry."
"Went on in to the Senath gin; they're payin' 2 or 3 cents more on the pound."
"Gin at Caruth is the landlord's; he ain't gonna like your goin' to Senath."
"Only if he finds out."
"He'll find out, not to worry!  What took so long?  Did you get the money for the pickers?"
He ignored the first question.  "Took it all in cash."
She placed the food on the table, poured a glass of milk for each of them.
"And?" She examined the papers from the gin. "What did you do with the rest of the money?  I maybe didn't get that far in school, but I can add and subtract."
"Got you that icebox you been wantin'; Iceman can drop off the ice and it'll keep things cool for days.  I found a good used one, at a good price; it's in the wagon."
"Good price for the seller, maybe; You must have spent twenty or twenty five dollars of the cotton money; icebox, new wouldn't have been more than ten."
She came closer. "Let me smell your breath."
"'thought so, you been drinkin' haven't you?  And what's this bruise on your face?  You been in a fight?"
"I - I don't remember."
"You don't remember?  How can you not remember?.
"I don't, honest.  I'm sorry.  I took out twenty dollars, bought the icebox from a guy at the gin, bought a pint of Jack Daniels and stopped to talk with a bunch from south of town who were waiting to unload.  I woke up beside my wagon with a sore jaw and the rest of the twenty gone.  So I came home.  That's all I know."
"I don't believe you.  I'm going to bed."


He could hear her quiet sobbing as he put the things away.

Things were cooler at breakfast time.  She spoke calmly and quietly.  "You can't do this.  First the bad Spring, then the sand, then Margie, now this;  I've had about all I can stand."
"I said I don't remember;"
"I know, and maybe you can't, but if you can't then you've got no business drinkin'.  Promise me you will leave it alone.  We are not going to spend our whole life as sharecroppers and drunks."
"OK, OK, I understand, I will do my best."

And he did, for the most part.  And the wounds healed, for the most part.  But on the rare occasion when she spoke of Margie, you could see a certain sadness in her eyes.

-----------------------------------------

 ------



Steve turned from the headstone, stared at the horizon for a moment, cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"Where to?"
"Back to the road; go on south, should be able to get through to the east-west road in about a quarter of a mile, State road Y for a ways then it becomes P.  Go west. Used to be a little community called Caruth at the crossroads;  general store and maybe a cotton gin, mostly gone now, but once a center of activity.  Couple of miles further we should hit 412; go right; avoid Senath and head for Kennett, we'll pickup state Y, go left up to 84, missing all the traffic of downtown Kennett.  West on 84 will take us to Arkansas."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Couple of times, but I cheated; ran the Google maps before I left home.

Jim switched on the recorder.  "So this is where your parents started out?"
"Yep, Interesting couple, they were, both from "broken" families, their respective mothers having died when they were very young.  Lela was born in Oklahoma, last of a family of nine kids born to the Texas girl her father had married when he went west to make his fortune.  Her mother died with her youngest still an infant; Lela came back to Missouri with her father, and, as a teenager, worked as a live-in domestic. Henry, also from a large family that lost the mother early, was just back from the war and probably working as an extra "hand" on some farm.  I'm guessing he may have been sort of an apprentice, he always seemed to know how to deal with most any farm situation."

They farmed here, mostly cotton.  Two more children followed in the next two years.  Must have done quite well, 'cause when the moved to their own farm in Arkansas, sometime in the late 20's, they traded a new automobile as part of the purchase price.  Dad sometimes spoke of excessive drinking, even to the point of not remembering some of his actions.  Times were good, they fought the sandstorms and the hot steamy summers, but crops were good, cotton was high; they saved and bought a place in Clay County and moved there.*  Eighty acres, half hills, half flat.  Not the rich sandy loam of the Mississippi floodplain, but the red clay and gumbo of hill country gravel and 'edge of the swamp' flatlands.  Then came the Great Depression, but that's another story; several stories, actually."

"Why don't we layover in Kennett tonight and get an early start in the morning?  There is no Hilton in Piggott.  Dry county.  I could use some lunch."

* See "Runaway".
 







 

 





Odyessy - Memphis

Memphis

 



"Long distance information give me Memphis, Tennessee,

Help me find the person trying to get in touch with me.

She could not leave her number, but I know who placed the call.

'cause my uncle took the message and he wrote it on the wall."

Chuck Berry, "Memphis Tennessee"



The flight pulled up to the Delta terminal at exactly 1:38 p.m. local time.

A direct flight from Baltimore to Memphis is just about two hours.  There was a time, before the changeover to daylight savings time was made a nationwide instead of a state option, when, if you flew on just the right day, you could arrive in Memphis a couple of minutes before leaving Baltimore, based on local times.
There are almost no direct flights to Memphis, leastways not from BWI.  Everything is based on Atlanta as a hub.  It is said that one could not even go to Hell from anywhere in the Southeast without changing planes in Atlanta.  So it takes four hours instead of two.  Add an hour or two on each end and you have spent at least a half day in the process.  Nine hundred miles; you can drive it in 18 hours; less if you really work at it.  But never mind that, Steve had not had much else to do.

Jim was waiting at the gate.  "Good trip?"
"Thank God for the travelling sidewalks in Atlanta; walking gets more aggravating every day." he grumbled, "You OK?"
"Fine, looking forward to this."
"Katie doin' OK?"
"Fine, busy, new job and all. You?"
"Couldn't be better.  Y' got wheels?"
"Yep, baggage?"
"This is it; let's roll."
"Truck's in the back lot; want me to fetch it and pick you up here?"
"Truck? No, I can still walk, just not as fast as I used to."
He led the way to an ageing Ford Ranger,  faded blue, with the scars and scratches of at least ten years of service. Cap on the back, two wheel drive, trailer hitch, good tires, clean as a pin.
Steve smiled.  "Ford hasn't made these for quite a while, right?"
"Yeah, but they made a bunch of the bigger 150's.'
Steve was laughing.
"What?"
"Katie drive this?"
"Yeah, why do you ask?"
"Just picturing a ballet dancer driving a pickup, that's all."
"She's a tough cookie."
"A lot like her grandmother."

 

--------------------------------

 



"Which way, Cap'n?" Jim asked.
"We're headed north out of the terminal, right?, towards downtown?  Somewhere just ahead is Democrat Road, take a right, I want to see my old neighborhood.  You had lunch?
"I know the road.  What's your pleasure for lunch?"
"Used to be a string of barbecue stands in Memphis called "The Three Little Pigs' "they still around?"
Not just "stands" anymore. Full blown restaurant out east; not close to here, though."
"Anything that might have a good barbecue sandwich, otherwise it doesn't matter.  'can't get decent barbecue hardly anywhere around Baltimore.  You wouldn't believe some of the crap they sell and call it barbecue.  Only know of one place I'd even order it; place called Red, Hot and Blue, down near Annapolis.  Franchise out of Memphis, I believe; takes its name from an old radio show, hot rock and roll DJ, Dewey Phillips. Ever hear of him? No?, I guess not, that was the Elvis era."

Jim stopped at a little diner, picked a couple of stools at the counter. Steve glanced at the menu; ordered a hamburger.  Jim did likewise.

They waited for their food.  Steve ventured:  "Tell me about you, Jim, what brings you here?"
"Not much to tell. Born is a little town in the Missouri bootheel called Steele. Dad ran what was a reasonably successful insurance brokerage for State Farm; my mom was head of nursing at the Blytheville hospital.  Dad flew for the navy in Afganistan, stayed in the Tennessee Air National Guard out of Memphis after it was over, then got himself killed by a drunk driver one Sunday morning out on I55.  After Dad was gone, Mom took a job at St. Jude's in Memphis, I went to CBC,* joined the Army, went to OCS and spent a boring three years on the DMZ in Korea. Then Memphis U, and here I am.
"Sorry to hear about your Dad. Where's your Mom now?  Still working?  Any brothers or sisters?
"Thanks, Yeah, Mom's still at St Jude's.  I try to stop by to see her on weekends.  She and Katie are buddies.  No siblings, just me, Mom says that was more than enough."

 

-------------------------------

 



"Where do we go from here?", Jim asked as the burgers arrived, obviously anxious to change the subject.
"We'll take a left on 78 and head for the interstate, cross the river and go north on 55; get away from the city.  Democrat Road runs due East and West along what used to be the north border of the airport.  There was a small Air Force base at the airport back then, used to go to the club there on occasion.  At the corner of Democrat and US 78, there was a large trailer court. We bought a 28', 8 wide trailer and moved in there when I got out of the Army.  Lived there until my government job took us out of town.  From the Google maps it looks like nothing there but fast food and warehouses now. When you get to 78, just take your left and lets hit the road."

Back in the truck, Steve was peering intently at the landscape as it slid past, looking for some recognizable landmark and not finding any.  Jim switched on the recorder on the seat between them.  "So tell me about Memphis."

 

-------------------------------

 



Where to start?, he thought. had not rehearsed this at all.  "At the beginning,", she said, from the back of his memory, "just do it!"
"Came to Memphis just out of high school, just turned 17, fresh off the farm, didn't know squat. Couple of town kids from my high school were also here at the "business college" to pick up some skills like bookkeeping, etc., that weren't in the curriculum back home. Those, plus a first cousin from Green County were the only people I knew in Memphis. School got me a part time job in a little drugstore soda fountain in the Methodist Hospital, I didn't know a soda glass from a sundae dish, but I learned.  Net pay was $17.50 per week, ten of which went to the boarding house.  Two meals a day, continental breakfast and a stingy dinner. a place to sleep and clean sheets every week. Not as bad as it sounds, you could get a swiss on rye with mustard and a pickle for about fifty cents, including a milkshake.  Bus fare took a lot of change, and I learned to pace my spending.  Lost fifty pounds that summer, and didn't even realize it.  Later on I got a job parking cars in a downtown garage; made sixty cents an hour and, by working afternoons and weekends, I actually made more there. 'Can you drive a car with the shifter on the steering column?'  'sure, no problem.' (I had never even seen one, let alone driven it.)"
"That was the winter I fell in love. The summer slid into Fall, and then Winter. A complete surprise;  complete unsolicited and unexpected, a letter from a girl back home; said she would like to see me next time I was home; signed it "Love', and signed her name.  I was amazed,  couldn't believe it; a real girl, cute, too, as I recalled, and she used that four letter word; couldn't remember if I had ever seen that word used in conjunction with my name. So far, most of the girls that I had known so far had either laughed at me or sort of ran away.  This was new; this was unbelievable!  This was great!"

"I did get home a couple of times that winter, double dated, became even more smitten. Spring came and my father, who had somehow injured himself, asked me to help him with that year's crop planting and cultivating; I became a farmer.  He did the thinking; I drove the tractor and did what he told me. Saturday nights were for going to movies, etc.

Then suddenly, the world shattered.  The warm friendly young lady wanted nothing more to do with me, and went back to hiding in her group of friends.  Crops were laid by and by the 4th of July, I was ready to get back to Memphis."

 

----------------------------------

 



"Back to the boarding house, this time sharing a room with one of the town boys who was still there. He worked at a huge bakery downtown and helped me get a job there.  Baker's helper,  (loading trucks) $1.05 per hour, six day week, guaranteed  six hours per day (night), time and a half for all over forty hours per week or over eight hours a day. Not bad, net pay somewhere around $42.50 per week, plus overtime."

"My roommate got a surprise one Saturday morning. He was not so gently awakened by his mother, his girlfriend, and his girlfriend's mother. 'Wake up, boy we're about to take a little trip!'  I learned later that the 'little trip' was down to Hernando, Mississippi, a county seat, just across the Tennessee-Mississippi line, where he was to be married. (no waiting, open six days a week). He didn't talk about it until quite a while later. He went back home, worked in his father's company, had several more offspring and lived happily there the rest of his days, He died a few years ago, still married to the same girl."

Back in Memphis, I met a Mississippi girl at school who was living at the girls' boarding house next door, bought a car, and was married by the next spring.  All sorts of things happened to us, sickness, etc. and inside of two years, I was in the Army. (see "Steven's Run")."

"Back from Germany and back to the bakery and a little over four years at Memphis State, I had my degree, another child and an offer of a job with Uncle Sam.  Graduating at mid term is not the best time to land a teaching job so I took what was offered; and have never regretted it. Three months of training and a transfer to Dyersburg came next. The next two years in a government field office was to change my life.".

"Sorry to ramble on so, Jim, I think I'm 'way off your subject."
"No, it's OK, good background material.  Interesting."
"We'll get to the farm, trust me.  Where are we?"
"West Memphis."

 

----------------------------------

 



"Used to be quite a town.  You see, Memphis was dry. You could not buy a drink anywhere legally. This, of course, spawned all sorts of 'private' clubs; membership fees were low, but everything else was a bit pricey. Legitimate restaurants would make you a drink, provided you brought your own bottle.  Regular customers just left their bottle on the shelf, or so it was said.  West Memphis, on the other hand, had no such silly restrictions. Memphis also had what they called the 'Blue Laws' which, among other things, prohibited the sale of unprepared food on Sunday.  So, by some freak of twisted logic, one could buy beer (after lunch) on Sunday in Memphis, but you could not buy bacon.  Outside the city line the Sunday morning prohibition on beer sales did not apply.

"West Memphis had bars, dance halls and other establishments to provide entertainment for the sailors out on pass from the Millington Air Station up north of town and for college students from the city. Half a dozen or so on us students, trying to get home from a show in West Memphis one Saturday night, were waiting for a) food from the bus station coffee shop, and b) the last bus to Memphis.  We were obviously persona non grata  and the food was forever in arriving.  The bus, however, was quite prompt. It was about to leave and our food was nowhere in sight.  We made a run for it, but one of our guys was not quick enough and got caught. You would have thought we had robbed a bank, or something.  He had to pay for it all. We managed to hold the bus and paid our share later, but I don't recall ever going to a Saturday night show in West Memphis again."

"Did go there to the Cotton Club a few times after I was married. A couple of friends played in the band. Went to the bathroom; came back and found a sailor sitting in my chair attempting conversation with the somewhat concerned young lady.  With the courage of two or three beers, I boldly tapped him on the shoulder and said firmly, 'Excuse me, but I believe you are in my seat.'  He stood up; then he stood up some more. He stood up to about six foot two.  A wave of sobriety and good sense swept over me. I smiled sweetly, said 'thank you very much' and sat down. Didn't dare look at him again."

"Another pair of co-workers of mine, faced off with some sailors one evening. John was a dapper dude with his hair slicked back in a DA who came from the same North Memphis neighborhood that produced Elvis."
"DA?"
"Duck's posterior."
"There was North Memphis and South Memphis; both were poor neighborhoods; only the complexion of the residents was different.  Bill was a tall rangy country boy from the East Tennessee hills.  As the conversation intensified, it boiled down to a face off between Bill and a rather large boy in a white uniform. John was watching from the perimeter, and after one comment by the sailor, John says quietly, 'You don't have to take that shit, Bill, hit 'im, I'm with you.'
Well, Bill did just that, John struck one blow and stepped aside.  A brawl ensued. Bouncers responded, and as Bill was dragged out the door, he observed John standing to one side; calmly combing his hair."

"Must have been quite a place."
"Oh, it was. Most of the people that I knew in Memphis were from either Arkansas or Mississippi; farm kids leaving the farm, being replaced by machinery.  Some from Tennessee farm country; no natives."

 

-----------------------------

 



"Just west of here is a little town called Wilson, Arkansas.  Part of the famous Wilson Plantation.  Prime, black dirt farm land, as good as it gets. Everything in town was Wilson.  Wilson Grocery,  Wilson Ford Dealer, Wilson Cotton Gin, you get the idea. A few years back, at my 60th high school reunion, had a chance to spend some time with guy who was a good friend in high school.  Knew he had done well and owned a lot of property, including several banks scattered around the area. With a short Google search, I learned that he was among the top 100 land owners in the entire country, and that he and his son had been involved in some multi-million dollar deals in Florida.
Hence, I was able to keep a straight face when he announced, matter of factly, 'I just bought the Wilson Plantation.'"
"Really?, Did you get the town too?"
" 'matter of fact, I did.  And five plantation houses to boot."
"Just how big is that plantation anyway?"
"Around forty thousand acres by the time I got it, used to be sixty.
"Another quick Google check: showed that he wasn't lying. No idea what he intended to do with it; he died a couple of years later, before I had a chance ask him.  I'll tell you more about him later."

 

-----------------------------------

 



Steve finally wound down, the adrenalin rush of recollection wearing off.  Jim says: "Just north of Blytheville, Arkansas. Where do we stop?"
"Little town of Hayti, Missouri; only one exit, should be able to find a decent motel and a good meal.  Caruthersville is just a few miles east to the river.  One of the few places you could cross the river between Cairo and Memphis, back then.  It was either Cairo and Memphis with bridges, or Cottonwood Point, Caruthersville or Tiptonville with ferries.  'guess the riverboat gambling casino is still here. Anytime you're near that kind of money, good food and accommodations and most everything else is not far away.  Say, did you know that Bill Clinton's original name was Blythe?  His real father died and his mom remarried and he was adopted by his step dad.  'you a gambler?,  No?, didn't think so; me neither, I can go bankrupt in a nickel poker game; you have to pay attention if you don't want to lose; I can't help thinking of it as a game."
"Who's Bill Clinton?"
He paused for a moment, glanced at the grinning driver, then,
"Relative of the president; came from around here someplace. 'thought you were a history major."
"Just pullin'' your chain a little."

 

-------------------------------

 



"Hayti, comin' up."
"Take the ramp and turn left at the light, toward town.  Let's us see what we can find." 

Motel 8 (or was it 6?) had indeed  "Left the light on" for them, and after a shower and a change, Steve called: "What say we cruise on over to the casino and see if there is a decent place to eat, and maybe get a drink?  'don't think we will find much here in town this early after dark, particularly on a weekday evening.  I'm hungry."
"OK, see ya outside in a few."

It was a little after dark when they cruised by the casino, a huge facsimile of an old time sternwheeler. it was not, nor had it ever been, floating. Had it, by some freak of nature, found itself actually in the river, it would have sunk under the weight of the neon lights alone, never mind the slot machines and game table that filled the inside.
"Wanna go in?, Jim says, weakly.
"Nah, let's go eat.  Saw a place on the way in that might be OK.  Sign said 'Dinner Club', but you never know."**

The dimly lit parking lot was, perhaps a quarter filled, when they parked and went in.  The lights were low in the empty dining room downstairs.  A somewhat flustered but smiling hostess appeared and escorted them to a table in an upstairs dining room; only two other tables were occupied, an older couple up  near the stage and a 'thirty something' man and woman in the shadows against the far wall.
Their table was against the wall, Steve facing the entrance, an unconscious habit left over from his Army days; Jim faced the stage.
"So, where's all the people?  'parking lot's half full." Jim says quietly.
"It's still early."
"That don't answer the question."

 

-------------------------------

 



"Drinks, gentlemen?" the waitress inquired sweetly, as she handed them the menus.
"Gin martini, Bombay, up, with an olive," Steve announced.
"I'll just have a draft." says Jim. "What's good to eat, I'm hungry?"
"Steaks, without question.  Chef buys the meat locally, aged and never frozen; cooks it like his salvation depends on it.  Look over the menu, I'll be back."
Jim looks across the table, grinned, "You knew this place was here, didn't you?
"Knew it was a few years ago; doesn't seem to have changed much."
"Figures."

She placed the drinks deftly on the napkins, the martini filled to the rim and not a drop spilled.  "Have you decided?"
"I'll have the New York strip, medium rare, baked potato." Steve volunteered, "something Italian for dressing on the salad."
"Same for me, but cook it a little longer, medium at least."
"You won't be sorry." and she was gone.

Steve sipped his drink, "Don't look now, but can you see the couple on the far side of the room?"
"Just."
"Don't stare, but watch."
She wore a tailored white suit, skirt just above the knee, scarlet blouse and a loose jacket, along with four inch white pumps. Obviously expensive but subdued jewelry, no rings or watch.  Long blond hair, piled high neatly on top.  He wore a rumpled sport coat, barely covering the NASCAR tee shirt.  He looked to have had a few drinks; only appetizers on the table.  Her attention was totally focused on her companion; her eyes never left his face.  He was talking incessantly, gesturing and laughing.  She smiled and laughed appropriately on cue.
"What am I looking for?"
"The story.  People always tell a story.  All you have to do is watch."
"All I see is a couple having dinner, maybe on vacation from the city."
"Look close.  She's a pro.  I'm betting that he's had a good day at the tables, and now he has a new best friend to help him celebrate.  They will be leaving soon and he will probably be back to the tables by midnight where he will lose most of what he won.  It's always the same."
"I'll be dammed, how d'you know all this?"
"I love watching people, it's educational."

 

-------------------------------

 



The steaks were even better than advertised; they told her so.
"You guys here for the evening?" she inquired as she asked about dessert.
"Just passing through, got to hit the sack, important appointment over at Kennett tomorrow.
"Should stick around; it's a fun town," she said with a hint of a smile and a touch of sarcasm.
"Not tonight, dear.  You can bring the check."

 The table across the room was being bussed and readied for the next customer.

-------------------------------------

* Christian Brothers' College, Well known high school and Jr. College in Memphis.

** Actually Steve lost $50 at Black Jack, but don't tell Grandma.

 

 



Watch for the next one:  "Senath" coming soon.











.

Odyessy - The Plan

The Plan

All day, all night, Mary Ann

Down by the seashore, siftin' sand

Even little children love Mary Ann

Down by the seashore, siftin' sand

                                                                                                  calypsonian, Roaring Lion

The Sun Deck is deserted, save for the couple in adjacent chaise lounges near the bow.

The cruise ship is a small one, The Marianne, flying a Brazilian flag and carrying perhaps sixty guests and a little more than half that in crew, rocking gently at anchor in the little cove as close to shore as the depth would allow..

Mid afternoon in the Baja, New Years' day, not a cloud in the sky. Guests and crew have mostly either gone ashore or are somewhere below sleeping off last night's party.

The couple on the bow appear to be asleep.  He, balding, close cropped hair and a close but infrequently trimmed snow white beard, khaki shorts and faded tee shirt, deck shoes and sunglasses, baseball cap pulled down over the eyes, open book laying across his chest.  Overweight, but not obese, been on Social Security for many years. A little over 200 pounds on a 5' 6" frame, his appearance belies his years.
Beside him, neatly dressed in navy knee-length shorts and a blue and white striped cotton pullover with sleeves just past the elbows, is a slight, almost frail, little lady of the same generation; short silver hair, big "sun shade" straw hat banded with a red scarf, sunglasses and a thick, fuzzy cotton robe complete the outfit.  She sleeps, her book closed and squarely placed in the table beside her. She does not snore. A slightly stooped, five feet tall, she's maybe a hundred and five pounds, with a couple of rocks in her pocket.

He came up from below by way of the midships stairway (or whatever they're called on board ships), paused, leaned on the rail and carefully surveyed the deck.  Young man, late twenties, clean shaven, close cropped hair that would have gladly stood at attention for a flattop. Deck shoes, no socks, sunglasses, khaki shorts.  His tee shirt is white with huge numbers "84" emblazoned in dark purple on the back in the style of football athletes world wide.  There is no name across his shoulders and his movements give a hint of his past that veterans everywhere recognize immediately.  Five foot seven, 150 pounds, muscular, well tanned.

He discovers the sleeping couple, walks quietly but briskly to the bow, leans on the rail in front of them.
"Mr. Steve?"
The only movement is the opening of one eyelid.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I'm James Freeman"
"So?"
From beneath the sun hat, quietly:
"It's James, Steve, Katie's husband, you met him at the wedding, remember?"

" I knew that, 'course I remember", he said, opening the other eye and pushing back the faded cap,

"Hey Jim, 'thought you'd be in town with the rest."Is Jim OK? James sounds so damn formal."

"Jim's fine, but please not 'Jimbob',  hate that; got stuck with that from grade school;  middle name's Robert".  "Had some reading to catch up on; new semester starts when we get back."

"Well, looky here Miz Rosie," the old man says in a mock Southern drawl, "we got us a young man who grew up with a double name and still knows how to sir and m'am."
"must'ave grown up somewhere in the South, probably west of the mountains, by the sound of ya'".  "West Tennessee, maybe?"
Jim grinned, snapped to attention, "Well, almost; South Missouri, Bootheel country, Sir!"
"Oh my God, and military too," "Army?" Where th' hell did Katie find you?'
"Steve!" not so quietly, from under the sunhat.
"Sorry"
Jim leaned on the rail again, grinning,  "University of Memphis, I was a student there; GI bill, she was doing a dance seminar in the School of Ed". "My good fortune".
"I'd say it was!" "Memphis State! School's grown a bit since '62; had only about five thousand students then, most of them commuters, had just barely attained university status. How many now?"
"thirty thousand plus, last I heard."
"That many, huh? and they still can't field a good football team."  "Well, Jim, what's up?  You didn't come out here just to listen to me rant about football".
"I need your help".
"Go on."

"Maybe Katie told you.  I'm working on my Masters in Education with special emphasis on history, specifically 20th century; would like to maybe teach in Junior college to start, and see where that takes me".
"Not much I can help you with there, I barely got my degree, what with a wife, two kids and a full time job in the mix. I'm real proud of my 2.54 grade point average though".
"Oh, I think you can be a great help. Katie says you grew up in these parts too, and I'm thinking you may have lived through a very interesting time, to me, at least. She also said that one of you could explain the tee shirt; the number, I mean".
The sunhat slid back and she sat up, revealing a pert, slightly stooped but dignified lady who appeared to be seventy at most.  "It's my birthday, my age, but Steve can tell you about that, it was his idea to begin with".  He has a short version and a long one, I recommend the short one."

She looked at her husband.
"I'll do the short one."

"Several years ago, Miz Rose here, was snuck up on by cancer. Undetected in spite of all the recommended tests, the poking and punching, etc. Was admitted for optional surgery to remove what everyone agreed was a fibroid mass, just after Christmas. What they found was not a fibroid but cancer in the colon, already at stage four.  Oops!  Doctor removed all he dared, stitched her back together and personally directed her transfer to a specialized unit in one of the Baltimore hospitals, best in the state, we were told.  A long rough ambulance ride, followed by pre-op procedures (again) in the middle of the night, a few hours sleep for me on the world's worst recliner, and in less than sixteen hours they reopened and removed everything that could be spared.  About seven hours and twelve units of blood later, we were able to see her for a few minutes (all her sons showed up). That was our low point; the only time, the only time that I thought it was really over. I was mentally sorting out funeral homes as I drove home that night."  "I had underestimated her again!"

"Things looked a little better the next day.  Two weeks in the hospital, three in a rehab facility, and six months of Chemotherapy brought her back close to normal. Never yet as strong as before, fifty pounds lighter, and a little slower afoot, but she made it. During that summer as her strength grew and, as she had time to think, she got the idea of a "family cruise"; wanted to do it in Europe, river or canal. Most are scheduled at least a year in advance and it was too late for the following summer.  Doctor hesitated, saying 'better to do it sooner rather than later', reminding us that what she had was 'treatable but not curable'. We understood.  Someone suggested a Christmas cruise (ask Katie), and a trip such as this one evolved. Her birthday is in November and, based on what we then knew, no one was sure but what that one might be her last. So, in a subtle waving of the middle finger at the guy with the black robe and scythe, we had the birthday number printed on tee shirts.  Every attendee received a shirt with a huge number 74 emblazoned on the back, as if to say 'we made it to this one and we will make it to more".

"The cruise was a hit and in a few years, she was still going strong so she did it again, this time with a  '79' on the shirt.  This trip is the third. I'm taking bets on her making one, maybe two or three more."

"That's the short version, the long one might cost you several drinks. So tell me about your education plans."

There was silence for a moment as Jim shifted gears.

"Wow! Uh, you see, I have to finish my Master's Thesis early this summer in order to take the degree and be able to start work in the fall.  Arkansas State up at Jonesboro says they might be interested in an associate professor by then."

"and what's your thesis to deal with?  Steve's curiosity is definitely aroused.  He is now sitting upright, paying attention.  "How do you plan to approach it?"

"The Demise of the Family Farm; Changes and Causes, the Great Depression and WWII.  Sounds boring, I know.  The approach is where I need your help.  Only thing I can think of is a lot of exhausting interviews, but that's boring, everyone has done that; I would like to do something different and maybe unique.  I'm just not sure what it is yet".
"So you want to interview me?  That subject is not boring, trust me."
"No, I would like to hear what you know, but I don't know how to get there.  Interview is not it."

"I need to think about it", Steve said as he checked his watch, "Bar should be open by now, why don't you wander on down there and order us a round.  I'll have a martini, up, with an olive, Bombay Sapphire, glass of Riesling for the lady and whatever you like for yourself.  Tell him to put it on our tab. Come on back and we'll talk further. I might have an idea."

---------------------------

"So, what's your idea?" she said after Jim had walked away.  "I got to hear this".
"I don't have a clue; never did a thesis."
"Well, for pity-ann sakes, you better think of something."
"'thought you might have an idea, you seem to always be able to find something for me to do."
"Just tell your stories, the ones you are always repeating to me."
"He won't understand most of the things I can tell, he didn't live there; he hasn't seen it."
"Then do what you did when you first took me to meet your folks, take him there."
"Might work."

-----------------------

"Oh, hi, Jim, back so soon?"
"Bartender's bringing 'em, should be here in a minute."
" 'think I got this thing figured out, when is your spring break?"
'Mid-April."
" If you can get away for a few days, I can take you to the scene of the crime and tell you what I remember in each area.  This will jog my memory and should broaden the scope of what you're trying to do.  If I understand it right, you don't know exactly what you're looking for, but you will know it when you see it.  I'll fly down, meet you and we will do a short tour of the mid-south. Been meaning to visit some of my kinfolk anyway; they're good people, you'll like 'em.  You bring a car and a recorder; you drive and I'll  talk.  You can sort it out and distill it later, and with a little luck, we can gather enough material to do your book.."

Jim was silent for a long moment, watching the ship's little ferry boats discharging the returning guests.  " 'might just work, let me see what I can work out, and run the idea past my mentor. I will call you in a few days after we get back.  Maybe I can get someone to help transcribe the recordings, I can edit, organize and rewrite; with a little luck I might just get it done by Fall."

"Just saw Katie and her sisters get off the ferry.  I'd better go meet them. 'scuse me", and he was gone.

----------------------

"Newlyweds!"  he snorted as the Bartender gingerly set the drink tray on the table.

He added the tip and signed the ticket.

"You were the same," she said with a smile, "but you are good, 'I think I've got this thing figured out,', Ha!, you just took my idea and ran with it!  Where'd you learn that, management school?"

"Sales!", I had this boss once, never had an original idea of his own", he paused,  "------  but that's another story"

She smiled,  " I think I've heard it."

(to be continued)

Next: "Memphis"

Dreadful Snake

She punched him with her folded newspaper.

"I think it went under the drapes",  she said, pointing to the closed curtains now covering the picture window..
What?, he replied, looking up from his copy of Churchill's history..
"The snake, a big one."
"What?,
"S-N-A-K-E, snake,"
"Really?"
"So?"
"So, get'im out."

It was not that unusual, given that the house sat in the middle of a grove of mature oaks, to have such an unwelcome guest.

"Right." I'll get one of my golf clubs."
"Not on  my carpet, you won't."
"I'll get the CO2?"
"It's not on fire."
"Carbon dioxide, comes out very cold; it'll freeze 'im, and we can pick him up and just toss him out the front door."
"YOU can pick him up and toss him out."

He returned with the extinguisher.
"You lift up the curtain and I'll blast him."
"I will pull the curtain back with the cord from the far end, thank you very much."
"Have it your way."

She got a firm grip on the drape pull cord; he held the extinguisher at the ready.
"You ready?", he asked. "Real slow now."

The drapes separated in the center as she pulled gently on the cord.  At about half open, there he was, all six inches of him, green in color and with the tiny markings of a garter snake, looking somewhat bewildered; a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's court.
He squeezed the handle and focused the stream on the snake; snake cocked his head and looked about in further bewilderment.

"Thought you said it would freeze him", she said, with a note of sarcasm.
He looked at the snake, then at the extinguisher.  A film of white powder covered the target area and surrounding five feet of dark brown carpet and beige drapes.
"I never knew carbon dioxide was so powdery."
He looked at the extinguisher.  "I got the wrong one; this is a dry powder."
"No kidding, Dick Tracy", she chided, "some fireman you are."

"I was an ambulance attendant", he protested as he returned with a five iron and smacked the snake unconscious, slipped; it under the limp body and carried him out the door, and returned.

Is he dead?" she asked.
"How should I know, I didn't check his pulse.  He's in the flower bed."
"Wonderful!  You can do the weeding in there from now on.  I've had enough; I'm going to bed."
"But,---------". She interrupted.  "YOU can clean up the living room!
Goodnight."

Steven's Run

for Chuck and Ann,
       ........ they lived it too.

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly Ride."
the shade replied ---
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Edgar Allan Poe, "Eldorado"

The the explosion shook the building. The windows rattled. 

He sat upright in his bunk.  The camp-wide outdoor speaker system blared the bugle call from all directions.

0600hrs, Fort Jackson, SC. 1955.

"Damn cannon!" he muttered, to no one in particular,  "Why d'they haft'a do that every morning?  It's Saturday, f'Christ's sake".

The cannon, a 105mm field piece, announced the raising of the flag every morning at Division HQ on "Tank Hill", a piece of higher ground, named not for military armament, but for the huge water container located there. The early morning sound of artillery together with the bugle calls always gave him a bit of a shiver, but it was an effective alarm clock. 

He was awake now, his sheet sticky from another night of sweating through the August heat of the South Carolina night. For convenience as well as comfort, the sheet was just thrown loosely over the stacked two-level bunk. Underneath, the bunk was neatly made; a little tightening in the morning and it was ready for the daily inspection. Air conditioning was unknown, at least in the Army; everyone sleeping in the barracks merely tossed a sheet over an already made up bunk, slept on it with as little clothing as possible and then dried and stored the sheet in the morning. Efficient, although the sheets sometimes became a bit rank before the next weekly issue. Steve spread his sheet loosely over the steel ends of the bunk so it would dry as much as the 90+ humidity would permit, completed his latrine duties, dressed in his work khakis (class B, no tie.) and set off for the mess hall. He was due at work at 0800.

Cpl. Johnson, the company clerk, waved him over to his table. "You had a call last night, seems your wife was admitted to the hospital.", he said, "Call came in around 2230 according to CQ's log".
"Shit! So why didn't somebody let me know?" 
"CQ said he called down to the barracks on the intercom and nobody answered, so he told them you were out in town on pass." 
"Great! That would have been eleven thirty down home, 'way past bedtime. Bet my mother-in-law loved it! She don't like me much anyway. Probably thinks I was shacked up in a motel somewhere. Guess it was too much trouble for CQ to get up off his ass and check the sign out book; he might've discovered that I didn't go anywhere last night; heaven forbid he should walk down to the barracks, it's at least fifty yards." "And that damn intercom is all the way at the other end of the building from my bunk: it wouldn't wake a scared rabbit." 

He ran out of breath; hadn't realized he was shouting. 

Johnson was calm, "Sorry man, but yelling at me ain't gonna' help now." "You need to get your ass over to the Red Cross and get your leave straightened out, then come back for your papers; I'll have them ready". 
"Time's a-wastin' man, move it!, this is the one you've been waitin' for".

---------------------

What he was waiting for was the end of a series of events he had never before experienced and over which he had had little control. Married just a little over two years before at the ripe old age of "almost nineteen", he and his young bride had plans and expectations for the future. His union job at a wholesale bakery gave them a passable income, but little chance of significant advancement; spending the rest of his life on a production line was not exactly what he wanted; not what he had studied for at business college.

The Korean war had finally worn itself out, but the "Cold War" with Russia was now first place in the national mindset; the draft system was in full swing, providing a steady stream of troops for the front defense lines in Europe. Young men were almost certain to serve a two year hitch; it was just that they could never be sure when their number would come up. One could join voluntarily, but that meant three years instead of two. 

There was one way that gave some semblance of control while costing only two years  - one could volunteer to be drafted. Members of the local draft boards were not the most popular folks in any community and were usually delighted to have someone "volunteer", whatever their reasons might be. The process was simple, just express your wish to "get it over with", sign the form and have your name placed at the top of the list. Induction could be expected within a couple of months. 

Steve and Janelle ("Jan") decided that getting on with their lives was not going to be on any kind of solid footing until the threat of the military service was put behind them. He established contact with the draft board and asked to be "drafted" as soon as possible. This was late in the Fall of the year just passed, around Thanksgiving. 

Then all Hell broke loose! Jan began having bouts of endless uncontrollable nausea, to the point of exhaustion, often stoppable only by hospitalization and the administration of IV fluids that were eventually counted in gallons. This cycle was repeated several times at different hospitals; medical professionals could not determine any likely cause or prevention, even to the point of exploratory abdominal surgery. They found nothing. These cycles continued through December and into early January with no sigh of abatement. The slightest thing could start the nausea, and once started, it would only end with hospitalization. Thankfully, there was ample insurance with Steve's group policy. 

Then there was a postcard from the Draft Board, followed by an official notification of the time and place. He tried to explain to them that this might not be the best time, but once placed in motion, the process was not about to change direction. He was to report to an induction station at a Memphis address at 0800 hours on January 28, just days before the official end of the Korean war. (Unknown at the time, this would later become important later, since, by virtue of these few days,he would be eligible for VA assistance for a full four years of college.) 

Much was to be done. Notify the employer, and the landlord, Jan would take the car, a five or six year old Chevy sedan, and move back with her parents in rural Mississippi. Fortunately their belongings were few so moving was not a major event, but the nausea continued, and his night shift job used up a major part of the available time. Events became a blur, but they got through it and he became a soldier while she returned to being once again a dependent daughter relying on her parents for help. Steve was duly inducted, sent by bus as a part of a group to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, processed into the system and assigned to a training regiment at Camp Gordon Georgia, for an eight weeks of basic training. Then there were fourteen days of leave before returning to Fort Jackson for a second eight weeks of advanced infantry education at Fort Jackson. 

By now the medical profession had determined beyond all doubt that Jan's problems had a definite cause - she was pregnant! The nausea cycles, however, continued. During his second session of training, Steve learned that the training company to which he was assigned was slated to be shipped, as a unit, to Germany. Not normal individual separate assignments to different posts, but an en mass shipment to one of the infantry divisions in Europe.

He also learned, through the helpfulness of the company clerk, of a little known regulation that provided for deferment of overseas assignments in cases of serious family emergency. It was worth a try. Family, at this point, was comprised of a young wife and her parents. They were able to obtain letters of recommendation from Jan's doctor, their minister, and other reputable individuals in the community. These were consolidated and forwarded to Steve's commanding officer, and subsequently up the chain of command, recommending approval all the way, and back down to the company level. So, when Company A, of the 506th shipped out in June, Steve was placed on Temporary Duty to Headquarters Company for 90 days, to await the birth of his first child.

He really had  no job.  Possibly to get him out of the company area during duty hour, he was assigned to the regimental personnel office.  His duties were to empty waste cans as needed and to sweep and buff the floor at the end of the day.  If he ran out of things to do, he just sat.  Boredom overcame him and he began volunteering to help with the minor repetitive clerical duties that the higher ranking clerks hated. Everything was done without the aid of modern copiers, computers, etc.  A couple of manual typewriters and an old mimeograph machine comprised the office equipment, and 3 x 5 card files were the memory banks. It was a busy office, the regiment was graduating trainee recruits at the rate of a company each week.  Orders for 120 trainee assignments had to be cut and processed for each graduation.

As his meager clerical skills became known, he was soon dressing in khakis and working a full day just like the other clerks - then emptying the waste cans and buffing the floors at the end of the day.  He eventually became responsible for picking up the "undesirables" from their company assignments and delivering them to the discharge center.  Since a jeep and driver were always assigned to the office, his job consisted of just riding in the shotgun seat and assuring that the recruit was properly disposed of.  Riding in the front right of an open jeep, dressed in khakis, he was occasionally mistaken for an officer by a walking recruit who mistook the regimental crest on his cap for a lieutenant's bar. The simplest solution seemed to be to just return the salute and keep moving; it was kinda fun anyway.

The Forth of July provided a long weekend so he took the opportunity to travel back to Mississippi to visit his expectant wife. This was a trip of several hundred miles by Greyhound, and required considerable effort to avoid the patrolling MP's at the Atlanta depot. (His pass had a limit of 50 miles. Atlanta was a bit over the limit; Mississippi was about 500 miles.) He found her in reasonably good condition, between hospitalizations and quite glad to see him. The weekend passed quickly and it was decided that he would drive back in order to have a quick way to return when the baby came. 

The return trip was uneventful save for encountering a state police road block in Alabama. They were only checking drivers' licenses in an effort to promote safety during the holiday weekend. No problem, right? Well, not exactly. He was driving a car with Mississippi tags. He was dressed in civilian clothes.  He had a Tennessee driver's license, which, unfortunately, had expired in April. Tennessee law provided that a license did not actually expire so long as the licensee was an active member of the military. OK, no problem, right? Well, not exactly. 

These were his thoughts as he topped the hill and saw the roadblock about a half mile ahead. There was no where else to go. He could prove that his license was still valid, but to prove it he had to show that he was on active military duty, and to prove that, he would be showing that he was well outside his pass limits, and, therefore, technically AWOL. OK, just keep your mouth shut and hope for the best, he thought, there's no way out.

He stopped as directed; the trooper approached his open window and asked to see his license. He fumbled and managed to retrieve his wallet. Luck was with him, for just as the officer took the license, his partner shouted a question to him from across the road. He turned to answer, dropped the license along with a brochure about Alabama laws, gave a cheerful "drive careful",and hurried back across the road. Steve finally exhaled, engaged 1st gear and quickly left the scene. 

The car, of course, was an unknown to the military, and could not, therefore be taken on post. It was well after dark when he found an out-of-the-way parking lot in which to stash the car and take a bus back to his barracks. With the help of the personnel office staff, he was eventually able to bring the car on post, to be readily available when the need arose.

-------------------

The need had just arisen. A quick trip to the on-post Red Cross office where the emergency situation was certified, and a loan for gas money was negotiated, then back to pick up the pass, stuff a couple of changes of underwear and a spare uniform into the "AWOL" bag along with his shaving kit, and he's off to Mississippi. It was almost noon by the time he passed through the West Gate headed for what would be the longest day of his young life. There had been no further word from the hospital. Privates did not make outgoing long distance calls from military phones and the in-laws had no phone at home anyway. Well, he thought, maybe it will all be over by the time I get there.  He was to have no such luck.

It's well over five hundred miles from Columbia, SC to New Albany Mississippi, almost all in two-lane highways with grade crossings, stop signs, traffic lights and city streets.  Steve took a quick survey of his map inventory; he found two somewhat tattered highway maps, courtesy of Shell Oil, and mentally computed his route.  He folded the Georgia map to show the first portion of the trip, and stuck it over the sun visor for ready reference while driving, and headed southwest toward Augusta.  Intersecting US 78 in about forty miles, he would then follow that route all the way home.  No route changes, just 500 miles of driving, which would include  the city streets of Augusta, Atlanta, and Birmingham.  No problem, right?

The current means of conveyance was a 1950 Chevrolet four door sedan, white in color, powered by a six cylinder in line engine that was the standard for General Motors for decades until Ford's patents for their powerful V8 expired, somewhere in the mid-fifties. It was a "plain Jane" bottom of the line Chevy with around seventy thousand miles already on the clock. It had a stick shift transmission (three forward, one reverse), with the shifter on the steering column.  There was no electric windows, cruise control or air conditioning.  A fifteen gallon tank and a 18-20 mpg consumption rate meant a fill up every 250 miles.  With only a half full tank to start, this meant at least two fill ups to get home.  Gas cost around 30 cents per gallon so the tank could usually be filled for less than $5.00.

At somewhere just west of Augusta, at a gas station with a small cafe alongside, he told the attendant to fill the tank and please check the oil, then scooted into the cafe to order a hamburger to eat as he drove and a bottled coke to provide the liquid.  He paid the attendant for the gas and was back on the road in less than ten minutes.  The process was repeated near Atlanta and again near Jasper Alabama.  The sun beating down, and now it was well over it's noon high point and becoming ever more in the driver's eyes.  He didn't own a pair of sunglasses.  The humidity and the heat, of course, produced perspiration and his uniform was soon soaked; the only relief available was the cooling effect of the moisture's evaporation fed by the wind from the open windows.  

Constant manipulation of the accelerator and brake pedals eventually caused leg cramps and forced him to rest the right leg on the right side seat and use the left on the gas pedal.  A bit awkward and clumsy, but effective - definitely not recommended for city driving.  The day wore on with agonizing slowness. Stretches of open road punctuated by small towns with 30 mpg speed limits, bigger towns with traffic lights, open roads with higher limits but still with grade crossings and farmland traffic.
  
Augusta, Thompson, Cowington, Atlanta.

Grind out the miles; Crowd the speed limits. Leave papers are in order, but don't need the delay of a stop.  Pit stop for a few minutes to stretch, gas up and grab a burger.

Villa Rica, Anniston, Pell City, Birmingham.

Blazing afternoon sun in the eyes.  Occasional farm traffic.  Once in a while there is evidence of a large roadkill, usually a mule.  Animal owners are responsible for any damage, but are seldom identified.  Drive on. Another pit stop.

Just after sundown, just before the Mississippi line, a section of US78 just outside a small town that was quite different.  The two-lane highway became a four lane divided boulevard, brilliantly lighted and bearing a sign which proudly proclaiming this stretch of road to be "The George Wallace White Way". Perhaps the name has since been changed.

Jasper, Winfield, Hamilton, Tupelo.

Tupelo, Mississippi!! Twenty some odd miles to go! Enough gas to make it.

Somewhere past ten o'clock, he parked on the street in front of the hospital, stretched and walked, tired, sweaty and generally rumpled inside the hospital to inquire of his wife.  
Yes, she was here, and no, she had not yet delivered.
 He stared in amazement for a moment.
"No kidding?, where is she?"  
"She's in 205, but visiting hours were over at nine."  
"Anyone with her?"
"Her Mother."
"Thanks."

He turned and headed for the elevator.  No one challenged him.

It was 10:55 P.M., August 27th.

---------------------------

There she was, all 105 pounds of her, nine months' pregnant.  The almost constant nausea and frequent hospitalization had prevented any significant weight gain, but the glow of pregnancy was still evident.  She smiled weakly and stretched out her arms for an enthusiastic hug and kiss.  Her mother's greeting was somewhat cooler, albeit civil.

The atmosphere in the maternity ward was subdued; short quiet conversations, bustling nurses, and an occasional clank of a metal bedpan, all punctuated by the unique sounds of labor from an expectant mom.

Her pains were still 30 - 45 minutes apart, accented by waves of nausea that almost overcame the medication fed through the slow IV drip. 

Time dragged. Terrible coffee, leftover from God only knows when and discreetly delivered by a helpful nurse.  Bottled Coke from a machine in the lobby.  Fresh pack of Winstons and a candy bar.  

Around three in the morning, when the pains were down to around ten minutes, Nurse announced that she was being "taken down to delivery." "You can come along," she said.  Her tone was more commanding than informational.  "I've called Dr. Parker." she added without taking her attention from the patient.

He followed obediently as she was transferred to a trolley and wheeled down the hall and watched as she was transferred to the center table, settled into the obligatory stirrups and draped with a sheet.

Another nurse appeared with a cloth face mask and a tank of ether, and a slightly paunchy, sixtyish and balding man appeared, scrubbed and was helped into his operating uniform. This was the small town doctor who still made house calls and always carried a sack of candy in his car to toss out to any children he saw in his travels.  He had delivered the mother-to-be some twenty years prior.

It began. Pains more frequent. Push hard!  Again!   NOW!

Nurse attempts to induce sleep, poured too much ether, soaked the patient's face, all to no avail--she never went out. He held her hand and watched in amazement as her abdomen collapsed, not unlike a rapidly leaking balloon; now a flurry of activity at the other end of the table; Doctor lifting the baby by his heels and hurrying to the next room. 

"It's a little bull," he announced quietly, to no one in particular.  He moved with the speed and efficiency of many years' experience.

It was 3:37 A.M.

Another lump in her stomach deflated as the afterbirth was expelled.  Nurse said, "you can go back to the room now, we'll bring 'em down in a few minutes."

The new mother arrived dressed in a clean gown with her hair freshly combed; her new offspring arrived a few minutes later and was placed in her arms. She beamed with pride.

Doctor stuck his head in the door, white shirt, rumpled tie,  " Hey soldier, c'mon, I'll buy you breakfast."
Steve looked to his wife; she nodded.
"Bring me back something."
"What d'you want?"
"A big cheeseburger, and maybe some fries."
He stared at her, unbelieving, looked questioningly at the doctor. who also nodded.
"Well, how about a milkshake too?"
"Absolutely!"

-------------------------------

Scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and jelly as only a southern short order cook can make, along with freshly made coffee at the all night restaurant in the Greyhound station; small talk with the Doc; questions about Steve's service so far; stories of Doc's WWII tour. 

He picked the takeout burger and walked slowly back to the hospital. The adrenalin was beginning to fade.  Doc went home to change and start his day.

She snatched the bag from his hands and devoured the burger in record time.
No trace nausea.  Amazing!  (It would return with the second pregnancy, but that's another story.)

Nurse handed the new father a small bundle, saying, "would you like to hold him?." With his head in his father's palm, the toes barely reached the elbow. Six pounds, seven ounces.

He lay the baby beside his mother, took her hand, "I almost forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"Happy Birthday!",  "It is today isn't it?"
"I guess it is.  I forgot too!"

It was 5:12 A.M.

She was 21.

------------------------------

Epilogue:  The "little bull" was given the first name of his maternal grandfather and the middle name of his father.  Nurses at the hospital provided the nickname that stuck. Steve fell asleep on a nearby cot and was out for the entire day.