Winter in Tennessee

More wonderful photos from Poopie at Pecan Lane.......................

Born to Be Bama Bound

Born to Be Bama Bound

Coach Bryant himself, Alabama’s hallowed football coach, had his humble beginnings in Moro Bottom, Arkansas. The nearby Fordyce school mascot, Redbug, said it all. Those pesky chiggers proved formidable. Bryant became Fordyce’s favorite Redbug son. The town’s theatre hosted his famous wrestling match, earning him his moniker. Coach and I had something in common. We barely escaped being Razorbacks.

Mobile Infirmary must have stamped my birth certificate with a big indelible “Bama.” Blood type – Crimson “A,” my diaper likely Houndstooth.

I moved to Camden, Arkansas at the tender age of 3; Hog calling, Razorback style, was de rigueur. An Arkansas mailing address made it compulsory, maybe even a school board imposed language requirement. Growing up, I mostly listened to school friends as they performed the feat. “Call the Hogs,” my cousins demanded on treks to Birmingham. I grudgingly and half-heartedly obliged. My kin were of Alabama football persuasion…Tide and Tiger.

Grandma Mathis, family matriarch to our next-door neighbors in Arkansas, cut young Paul Bryant’s hair. Two of the Jordan boys, friends of Bryant’s in Fordyce, lived in my town. George “Jud” Jordan, one of the twins Coach Bryant spoke so fondly of, went to my church, his wife organist.

In the Deep South, football has always been king of autumn. Unlike Alabama, Southwestern Conference Arkansas had no state rivals. Crimson Tide fans in a strange land, my mother and father quietly smiled and nodded during pigskin conversations. Sugar Bowl, 1962 found the Razorbacks battling the Crimson Tide; Camden was abuzz with anticipation. “Wooooooo pig sooieee” ricocheted for miles up and down the Ouachita River. Mama, with a dangerously wild hair, kept the bright red Christmas paper on our front door and cleverly added a huge white “Go Bama.” Officially the Christmas holidays, cars slowly drove by, viewing yard and door decorations. We heard tire screeches as folks threw on their brakes and backed up for a second look. How dare someone defame the Hogs in their own state? We gained community notoriety; the local radio station dedicated “Stars Fell on Alabama” to my daddy. I learned of Joe Namath, highly irregular for a female grade-schooler in Hogland.

High school senior, fourteen years later, and pressed to choose an institution for higher learning, I pondered, “Where would I go?” Southern mandated ACT scores were sent to Auburn, Alabama, and closer-by Louisiana Tech. With my interest in fine art, Auburn was the logical choice; its art department was well thought of. My parents, with me in tow, took a Thanksgiving road trip to Birmingham to see relatives. Enter good ol’ Uncle Archie, a bona fide Auburn engineer. He arranged for Cousin Kent to provide a tour of the supposed loveliest village. Supporting alum, Uncle had yearly Iron Bowl tickets. Unselfishly, but at the hopes of securing a future Auburnite, he relinquished his ticket to me. My accompanying cousins, obviously pro-Auburn in school colors, were ready for the ensuing battle in Legion Field. Hiking Birmingham hillsides, a girl fresh from Arkansas drank in all of the colorful hype along the way. Inside, the scene was pure madness; orange and blue dominated one side of the stadium, crimson and white the other. War Eagles and Roll Tides battled back and forth across the gridiron in deafening decibels. Toilet paper littered the football field. Sticks with Tide boxes were cushioned with Charmin, visual support for Alabama. I vaguely remember the Auburn tiger and eagle, less impressive than “TP-on-a-stick.” After an eternity of suspense, the rival teams came onto the field. Himself, Coach Bryant, casually strolled onto the field and leaned on the goalpost, surveying his team. The Bama Boys were up for the fight…psyched in modern day terms. What pure sports majesty the team displayed! My visceral feelings overcame any sense of family commitment due to my ticket source. I was hooked. No fool, I kept my joy at the Tide’s victory in check on the way back to Uncle Archie’s. Next day we drove home to Camden; Daddy cleverly side-tripped through Tuscaloosa. The campus, divinely painted in autumn hues, called to me like a serendipitous siren. I headed for T-Town fall 1972.

I stayed at Bama 2 full years, withdrawing in 1974 to marry my Capstone engineer. We returned the following year on a fellowship for his master’s degree. Again attemping school, I dropped out, lacking the necessary fortitude. The next 28 years were used to raise a family and live globally in Indonesia and South Louisiana (a close resemblance to foreign posting). Husband forced into retirement at the age of 46, we moved to Mobile, my birthplace. With hubby rotating globally in the oil field, I enrolled at the University of South Alabama, again pursuing academia. Struggling with a degree plan that would fit my needs and use my earned credits, I “Googled” my fingertips off. My alma mater had a program for distant learners, the External Degree! My older Bama credits would be viable. Déjà vu. Gladly jumping through the necessary hoops, I was accepted into the program after my second sojourn to Indonesia. Between repatriating from Jakarta and heading for Muscat, Oman, I attended the required orientation on campus and was finally on my way to an official degree from my beloved Bama.

The last seven years a balance act of family obligations and EXD contracts (the equivalent of campus attended courses), I wrote papers from my laptop as I globe trotted. Complelting a course in meteorology while in the Middle East, the arid climate made for interesting subject research. Summers home from my expatriate adventures were dotted with seminars in Tuscaloosa and Dauphin Island. I discovered a new love – academia. It has been a long and arduous task, my degree. I love to tell surprised friends and associates, as I speak to them from a face framed in gray hair, that I graduated from college this summer. I don’t expect calls and letters with offers of employment. My degree selfishly pursued, the parchment was awarded – an academic nod from Bama – the place where it all started 37 years ago.

Yes, I indeed was born for Bama. In perfect coincidence, my sister married the son of Coach Bryant’s youngest Jordan friend from Fordyce. “Jud” Jordan’s widow played the organ at my wedding. Family photos hung on the walls through the years, included Coach Bryant and his team’s latest Sugar Bowl end zone victory over the Arkansas Razorbacks. Bama blood runs thick; my younger son, Nicholas Bryant McGlawn, earned his degree from Alabama several years ago. It’s a family thing. We proudly go to games when we can and watch televised games when we can’t physically attend, game day shirts mandatory.

I have enjoyed my lengthy quest for scholarly validation. Like Bryant, Mama called...twice for me; I chose Mammy Alabamy and became a member of the Bama Nation. Fatefully, several years ago, my family was visiting in Birmingham when the Saban brew-ha-ha took place. Upon hearing that our new coach was flying to T-Town, we quickly jumped in the car and joined the throngs, full of Southern hospitality, welcoming him. It was magical and made for a great family memory.

Born to be Bama bound, I graduated from the University of Alabama August 2009, holding an Bachelor of Arts Degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with a Concentration in Humanities.. New skills and passions, one of them writing, this article was written for my senior project and last undergraduate course. My diploma will be professionally framed in crimson and will hang next to my husband’s and son’s.

Yes, it is a family thing, my own blood family’s and that of the larger Bama Nation.

Yea Alabama, Roll Tide Roll.

I was born for Alabamy;

I have obtained my goa

_____________________________________________________

Nita Risher McGlawn

Nita is a freelance writer and visual artist living in Katy, TX. Her most recent published work was in the University of Alabama Alumni Magazine. The piece, “Born to Be Bama Bound,” chronicles how she came to attend the University of Alabama during its glory years of the early 1970’s, even though she grew up in South Arkansas.

Soon to be published, “A Bama Primer,” takes a whimsical tour of the University of Alabama. Children, university students, and die-hard fans will enjoy the alphabetical journey with landmarks, famous Bama folk, and trivia represented. Verse and graphics are original work by Nita.

Visit www.nitamcglawn.com to view some of Nita’s original artwork.

Caroline Blue - Part 4 - Finale

4--

The loud fan started up and Caroline breathed deeply, enjoying the cool air, trying to calm down. She leaned over the sink, turned her face to the mirror, and sighed.

Caroline used to have long, beautiful, chestnut hair. But the Oklahoma summers, the hot stoves, the heat of labor, the necessity of constant washing to fight the fried funk--all this stacked up and finally convinced Caroline to cut it short, shoulderlength. She cried all day long and well into the night after the job was done. Rusty told her how much he liked it. Her mother, sisters and all of her friends told her how cute it looked. She got over the loss. But a small part of her felt guilty. Like she had betrayed herself, forsaken her mother’s countless hours of brushing, her own countless hours of washing and tending--all to keep her neck cool, while she waited tables.

Something caught her eye in the reflection, and her throat tightened up. There, punching through the layers of foundation, blush, grease, and sweat, at the right corner of her mouth, was a pimple. A big, fat, ugly whitehead. Obvious as all hell all day long to everyone who had seen her, to James and Rusty . . . to Joe.

A vibration, hot and sick, rushed up her insides. She snapped off the lights and savored the darkness for a moment before the vibration caught back up. She walked out of the bathroom, past the cook, past James Harshaw and out the door, startling the bells, not shutting the door all the way behind her and to holy hell with the air conditioning. Got inside her tiny red car. Started the engine and backed out without looking behind her. There was a bang and a shout, and her body was tossed forward. She turned to look, and saw that she had run right square into the side of the delivery girl’s car.

Both women were out, Caroline’s heart jumping into her throat.

“Why didnt you look where you was goin!”

“I’m sorry,” Caroline whispered.

“Well! You know your insurance is gonna pay for this!”

“Uh huh,” Caroline said. She thought of her premiums going up.

“What the hell was you doin leavin work, anyway!”
 “I dont know . . .”

“Shit, well . . . Shit! I’m leavin too! You cant make deliveries without a car!”

“You can use mine,” Caroline said, then, remembering what had happened, she added, “I mean, I can call Rusty, he can bring our truck for you to use . . .”

The delivery girl smirked.

“Then how’ll he and Joe Troy drive all them kids to T-ball?”

There had been some malice in the big girl’s question--a slight, undeniable meanness of tone, sure--but Caroline attacked her with a fury beyond all proportion. Haymaker to the eyeball, elbow to the breasts. The big girl fell back hard against her car, covering her face, shrieking. Caroline landed on her, hands clawing at her scalp. By the time the rage had subsided, James Harshaw had her in a full nelson and Louanne, the diner’s owner and boss--who had pulled into the parking lot during the attack--was holding the delivery girl and patting her screaming head.

“What in hell’s the matter with you?” Louanne yelled.

Caroline had nothing to say. It felt too good to be in James’s arms.

“You’re fired.” Louanne’s black eyes flashed. “Come on, Chantilly,” she said to the wailing delivery girl, walking her towards her own car. The two got in and drove out of the parking lot.

James let go of Caroline. By the time she’d turned around, he was back inside. She stood on the steaming gravel and watched him through the window. He left a five and two ones beside his plate (‘a cheap tip,’ she thought, more in hurt than resentment). He walked out of the restaurant and on to his truck without so much a glance in Caroline’s direction. He got in and drove away.

Caroline looked around at the skyline of weeds on each side of the parking lot, listening to the high sharp grasshopper sounds beyond. She moved slowly back, sat down on the hot concrete sidewalk, and began to cry.

Inside the kitchen, the cook tonged a piece of frybread out of the boiling grease and set it upon a napkin to let it cool and dry. She took a plastic, bear-shaped bottle of honey off the shelf behind her. With honey in one hand and bread in the other, she walked out of the restaurant to Caroline.

_______________________

Brian Ted Jones was born in Oklahoma in 1984. He is a graduate of St. John's College in Annapolis. He lives in Oklahoma with his wife, Jenne, and their son Oscar.

Saying Goodbye to Clem

SAYING GOODBYE TO CLEM

The cemetery was empty, just like it was the last time I visited. As I was walking I slipped on a moss covered flat gravestone and came face to face with a pretty young girl. She stared at me calmly with empty grey eyes. I realized she was another one of the weathered marble statues. Her headstone read: Little Gracie, 1882-1889. Seven years old, about the age of my son Clem. It's hard to imagine children resting here alongside so many elders. I reached out and touched her cheek, smooth and cold as glass, and whispered, "I'm sorry." It was all I could think of to say.

I was taking it all in, the musky exotic aroma, the dominance of all of those long oak branches flowing with silken moss, the silence that starts out like silence and then becomes something loud and incoherent. This was Bonaventure Cemetery, and I was there on a personal mission to visit my late husband's tombstone.

Clem killed himself two years ago, probably in a dumpy motel on some strip somewhere. I don't have the exact details, but he did write me a short letter explaining his decision. He tore my heart open one more time. I loved that man and he hurt me without even knowing it. When I found out he had killed himself, I put it together as fear and loneliness. No better reason needed, people do it all the time.

As I was looking at more tombstones, an extremely tall man walked towards me holding an opened big black umbrella. It wasn't raining, nor was it particularly sunny, so it didn't make sense. I was all alone, but scared as I was I stood my ground. He stopped in front of me smiling and bowed.

"I see you met Little Gracie, she's a treasure, isn't she?"

This man was wearing a costume from another century. A long flared coat, a vest, loose fitting pants pushed into knee high boots, and white gloves. When he bowed, his long black hair fell like a mop being shaken out. I was leery, don't let me pretend otherwise.

"I felt a great sadness when I saw her. I could never understand children dying, barely understand adults dying. It takes its toll coming here." I took another look at him and went on, "Is there a party you're heading to?"

"No, delightful creature, my party days are long gone. I live here, write my stories, and rest with the giants of the earth every night. Oh, and I shouldn't leave out my three helpers, they're the best company a man could have."

"Personally, Mr." I started.

"Oscar, call me Oscar," he said.

"Okay then Mr. Oscar, call me Maggie. Let me tell you from my heart, I wouldn't spend one night in this place for any reason whatsoever. I don't have that much experience with cemeteries, but this one gives new meaning to the word scary."

He laughed at what I said. This was some weird fellow. I figured it was best to move on.

"Well, I'll be going now, but I do need to ask you one question."

"I'm sure you are filled with questions, it's not everyday someone meets an angel."

He crossed his arms and stood as if prepared for anything.

"Why do you carry an open umbrella when there's no need?"

He tilted his head, like he couldn't believe what I asked or he was thinking. I'm not sure."

"The umbrella keeps some of the younger angels from pulling my hair. See? I swing it around so they can't sneak under it. I thought you would've known that."

“When I start knowing things like that they better cart me off to the asylum.”

I was serious, but laughing at the same time.

“I hope we meet again Mr. Oscar, when I have more time to talk, but right now I have to hunt for my husband. I feel like I have to say a final good-bye to him, and maybe clear some things up at the same time. Mostly, I need to tell him I forgive him.”

Oscar gave me a strange look, then seemed to make a decision, and said, “I can help you with that if you’d like.”

“What do you mean Oscar? What could you do?”

“All I have to do is close my umbrella, and after the angels have their fun pulling my hair, I can ask them to help me will Clem up here for a visit.”

“I feel like I’m about to faint.” I felt my heart racing. “I can’t believe you could do that."

We walked over to the statue of the lady that looks like she’s sleeping. I pointed out the tombstone I remembered from my last visit a year ago. Oscar bent over to sweep a little mulch off it and we saw his name, Clem Burnett: Died for Love. Oscar slowly began to close his umbrella, and so many memories flooded my brain, I could hardly separate them.

I remembered the day that I first met Clem at the state fair, him taking a bite out of my cotton candy, and then laughing like a fool. Moving in together to a house we couldn’t afford, him working at the local gas station and me at one of those fancy wedding cake bakeries. I’ll never forget the joy I felt after giving birth to our son Clem Jr. We shared so many good years, and then it all got turned around.

I came out of my trance to see Oscar slapping around his head, to make the angels stop bothering him I guess. I couldn’t see them, but I believed what Oscar said was true.

I began to talk to Clems tombstone, and Oscar continued to fight off the angels.

“Okay, so here it is Clem. I hope you’re listening because I will only be saying this one time. I understood when you left that you had to go, but I didn’t understand why you never contacted me again. I want to forgive you for that because I know your intentions were good. I suppose you thought I’d start a new life with some fine gentleman, and our son would have the love of a new father, in short, that it would be better if I completely forgot you. Well, that might have been your thinking. Let me tell you how it worked out. A day never passed when I didn’t miss you, I felt like a hollow shell and if it wasn’t for Clem Jr. I might have taken the same route you did. But what would little Clem do? I could never leave him. He is the hope that holds me here, and connects me to you. So hang on to it, I’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

There was a rumbling sound coming from the stone, and when I looked up Oscar was gone and in his place I saw a transparent figure. I could see it was Clem, holding his arms out as if to embrace me. I stepped into the center of light that was coming from him. He leaned forward and I could feel his lips on my cheek. We stayed that way for a few minutes, then the light began to lift and I could feel Clem was no longer with me.

Oscar suddenly appeared in the empty spot, and quickly opened his umbrella.

“Did you see them? Did you see how they pester me?” He said as he swung the umbrella around.

I stood with my hand on my cheek smiling, tears running down my face.

“Yes Oscar, I saw it all, I can’t believe it, but I did. I couldn’t admit I didn’t see the angels, I think I was blinded by the light that came from Clem.

“What’s that on your cheek, it’s something shiny?” Oscar reached out and touched it and just like that, he disappeared.

I hoped he was still in earshot when I called out, "Oscar, I'll be back."

_______________________________________________

Eileen Elkinson has been writing for about two years and has published works in Bewildering Stories, Dew on the Kudzu, The Shine Journal, Western North Carolina Women, and is an editor/reader for Mezzozine Magazine. She lives in Asheville, N.C.
in the mountains.

****This is the follow up story to "Looks Like She's Sleeping" which published on January 12.

Tigers in the Grass

Tigers in the Grass

©Nita Risher McGlawn

The recent scandal involving a certain PGA golfer made me think back to my own affairs on the golf course. Small town summers for college coeds left a lot to invention.

A movie, whether old or new, was almost mandatory for date night in South Arkansas, but what to do after the flick? No trendy restaurants were available for table talk. At the cusp of full adulthood, liquor was an iffy component, depending on availability and raw courage at the local liquor store. But making out was a low budget option and we learned to do that well.

Ralph’s thin, muscular build and sweet disposition made him a fun date. He was witty and I felt comfortable in his presence. He had always been one of my favorite flirts in high school. I was glad he had started calling me for dates that summer. Coming down from the high life as a college freshman, I needed diversions.

Our local country club was up on a hill. Those that knew the golf course also knew how to gain entrance, even when the gates were locked. As summer luck would have it, Ralph was a golfer.

I don’t remember the particulars of gaining access to the putting green, but there we were, on the grassy hill, only the infinite Arkansas starry sky as witness…at least as far as I know.

This scenario is G-rated. After all, I was a goody-two-shoes…a recipient of the American Legion Good Citizenship Award! Clothes remained on, but we kissed like there was no tomorrow. The thick, short Bermuda grass made for a soft pallet and we owned it.

Why do I still remember this? Well, first of all, I am female and tend to remember details… special moments. But there was something magical about the night, making perfect use of the putting green, Ralph carefree and romantic in an environment he knew very well…the golf course and me. I guess you could say we were “tigers in the grass.”

***

Nita Risher McGlawn

Nita is a freelance writer and visual artist living in Katy, TX. She likes to write about life in the South. Born in Mobile, Alabama, she moved at the tender age of 3 to a paper mill town in South Arkansas. In that small town, she grew up…mostly with Razorback fans. She took refuge at the University of Alabama as soon as possible, but still loves to chew the fat with her Arkansas friends and in turn, they love to heckle the elephant in the room. The town newspaper in Camden, Arkansas featured resident, Al Rose. He would reminisce about life in Camden and would always end his piece with the phrase, “memories that bless and burn.” She likes to borrow that phrase from time to time, because reflections are indeed a double-edged sword.

Visit www.nitamcglawn.com to view some of Nita’s original artwork.

Caroline Blue - Part 3

3--

The man wore jeans and boots and a green teeshirt that framed his solid, V-shaped trunk. The sleeves ended midway down his arms and stretched across his thick, dimpled biceps. He had dark hair; clean strands of it fell across his forehead. His shoulders were broad, his skin tan and healthy. When she saw him, it was like Caroline were staring at a picture in a magazine. He had a book in his hands. Caroline watched him as he looked around the diningroom.

Suddenly, she realized who he was.

That’s James Harshaw! I went to high school with him! But could that really be him? He was such a scrawny thing back then! Good god, where has he been? What’s happened to him?

“Get on out there,” the cook said. Caroline jumped and spun.

“What!”

“I said get on out there. Quit hidin.”

Caroline opened her mouth, affronted.

“I am not hiding!”

“Yes you are,” the cook said, wiping her hands on her gray workshirt. “I seen that man. You get out there and take his order.”

Caroline glared at the cook, then turned to take another peek into the diningroom. James had taken a seat in a corner booth. He glanced around, looking a little bewildered at the emptiness, then opened his book and began to read. Caroline took a deep breath, straightened her clothes, smoothing them out. She grabbed a menu off the stack and walked over.

James looked up when she came out, frowned, and then his face lit up.

“Caroline! How are you?”

Caroline froze as he stood, stepped forward, and wrapped her in a hug. Her heart began to beat so fast she felt embarrassed, sure that James would feel it.

“Hi, James!” she said, when he’d pulled away and smiled at her. She began to blush, and while a part of her didnt want James ever to take his strong, goodsmelling arms away, she wanted her distance. She smelled like hamburger, her hair didnt look good, and she hadnt checked her makeup in an hour.

James stepped away and folded his arms across his chest. Caroline smiled at him and blinked. The little guy with the skinny arms, the pimples, the guy who’d never played football? That was this man, standing here in front of her, in this big, clean, gorgeous body? She found she had nothing to say, and panicked, and said the first thing that popped into her head.

“So . . . uh, what can I get for you?”

James’s face shifted. He looked put off by the abruptness. Then he smiled--‘oh well’--and pointed at the menu.

“I dont need that Caroline,” he said. “I’ll just have a bacon cheeseburger and an iced tea.”

Caroline nodded and smiled.

“Okay,” she said, and nothing else.

Why am I being so distant? Why am I being so rude?

James looked uncomfortable standing up. Caroline hadnt turned to walk away yet, so the two of them just stood there, awkwardly, the useless menu in Caroline’s hand.

“Um, what are you doing down here in Talihina?” she finally asked. “I hadnt heard anything about where you were livin . . .”

Caroline trailed off, and blushed, but James looked relieved that he’d asked her something he could talk about.

“Yeah, I’m just down visiting my folks. I teach in a little college up in Maryland.”

Caroline’s eyes bulged a little. Maryland? She wasnt exactly sure where that was, but it sounded far away.

“Wow, that must be . . .”

She couldnt think of an adjective.

James nodded and sat down.

“Yeah, well. I enjoy it,” he said, sliding further into the booth and reaching for the book he’d been reading.

He’s done with me.

“What’re you reading?” she asked, before she knew she was going to.

James looked up at her, then down at the big blue book.

“Oh, uh, it’s for school.” He cleared his throat and blushed, just a little.

There he is, Caroline thought. There’s the guy I remember. She felt an odd comfort, a feeling like she had the upper hand.

“Oh?” she asked, craning her neck to read the title.

“Yeah,” James said. He coughed into his fist. “It’s, uh . . . War and Peace.”

This made Caroline angry. She looked annoyed at James, even before she could stop herself. James blushed darker and looked down at the book, then back at Caroline. He smiled and flipped the book open. Caroline said nothing else, and James began to read. She scrambled through her memory, wanting to keep his attention, looking for something, anything at all, which would give her something else to say.

And before she had time to consider, censor, or reject this story, she was already telling it.

“One time my momma . . .” she began.

James looked up, and if he were annoyed, it didnt show.

“She had this cyst . . .”

Terrified, shocked.

THIS is what I’m telling him.

Disaster. But there was no turning back.

“And Dr. Parker, you know, the one who works at the hospital?” she asked.

James’s cheeks lifted. A forced smile, a nod. Caroline blushed.

“Well, she asked Dr. Parker how to get rid of it, and he said . . .” Caroline began to laugh, fakely.

“He said the best way he’d found to do it was to get a real big book and drop it right on top, you know, of the cyst.”

Her laughter got bigger, more grand. James was quiet, polite, interested.

Caroline said, “and she asked him, ‘well, for a cyst this big, how big a book would that take?’”

Caroline put her hand on her waist, cocked her hip, and raised her voice. As if putting more of herself into the story would make it all seem less embarrassing.

“And he said, ‘Oh-h-h . . .’”

Caroline pretended to be nearly overcome with laughter, in order to hide how deeply she was blushing.

“‘For a cyst this big,’” she said, “‘I’d say War an Peace oughtta do it.’”

A beat after the punchline, and James widened his eyes, opening his mouth.

“Oh--” he said, and then began to shake his shoulders up and down, imitating a chuckle. It was so forced as to look nearly grotesque. Caroline continued her own pantomime of amusement, heaving, growing redder and redder, hand placed upon her upper chest in a figure of ladylike mirth. The two continued these laughter charades for nearly ten more seconds.

“Oh!” Caroline said finally, pretending to catch her breath. “Whew! Well. I’ll go put in that order for you,” she said.

James smiled, the skin around his eyes strained from his efforts at smiling. “Thank you.”

Caroline walked back to the kitchen, wrapped in depression.

“Bacon cheeseburger french fries,” she mumbled to the cook.

“I liked that story,” the cook said.

“Yeah, well--”

Caroline continued past the cook and into the bathroom, closing the door sharply behind her.

*****

Brian Ted Jones was born in Oklahoma in 1984. He is a graduate of St. John's College in Annapolis. He lives in Oklahoma with his wife, Jenne, and their son Oscar.

Stealers

Stealers

By

Frank A. Gladden

Floyd Coleman, the community leader and Mitford’s general store owner was troubled. Someone had been stealing his watermelons. The thief's bursts them open eat the heart, and leaves the rest in the field to rot. Not only that, but also some scoundrel snuck into his cornfield and stole his roasting-ears. He had planned to earn a heap of money selling his homegrown produce in Coleman’s General Store, a cluttered little building with a whitewashed front that leans to one side. Inside, Mr. Coleman sells everything from salty mackerels packed in brine, to wine, and sometimes a little white lighting. There is a gas pump out front where the truckers buy their gas and tall weeds out back where men folks pass around the bottle, and sometime, other stuff goes on back there too.

Floyd walked around for days with a long sour face, rubbing the top of his baldhead, with one hand, and the thumb of his other hand stuck under the strap of his overalls. When patting himself on top of the head one day, he came up with what he thought was a sure-fire plan. He decided to tie Rex, his old possum dog, in the middle of the watermelon patch. Even if Rex couldn’t get to the thief, his barking would scare him away. The next morning when Floyd went to check on his dog, he found the rope wrapped around the stake and Rex choked to death.

“Darn,” he mumbled, “My best possum dog.”

For days, he walked back and forth, up and down the worn greasy hardwood floor, wiping his thick glasses with the tail of his dirty apron, with his old worn brogues squeaking as he pondering his problem. “Eli,” he said aloud.

He decided to ask Sheriff Eli Lumpkin to ride past and keep an eye on his watermelon patch and his cornfield. Eli, a tall man with a long beaked nose, a twitching left eye, and big hands, always smells like stale sweat. He walks around guffawing and slapping people on the back. He is always messing around up at the store anyway, so Mr. Coleman promised to slip him a few dollars for checking on his property.

**

Sheriff Lumpkin’s tall frame looked like a falling scarecrow, running down across the field. His big brown scarred-up boots crunched the dried broom straw.

“Come back here, you little varmints,” he hollered, chasing Willie B., June Bug, and Jimmie Lee, down across the field and into the thickets. Jimmie Lee, a long tall twelve-year-old boy looked back and hollered, “Come on y’all, hurry up.” Then he saw Sheriff Lumpkin leaning over with his hands on his knees, sucking hard to catch his breath. Sweat ran from his beet-red face, down his forehead and nose and dripped into the weeds. He rose up, shook his fist in the air and hollered, “I’m gonna catch you little varmints’ yet.”

Willie B., June Bug, and Jimmie Lee, hid in the tall weeds fanning gnats while nursing the scratches on their legs and picking briers out of their bare feet.

“I told you we should’ve waited ‘till dark,” Willie B. whined.

“He didn’t see our faces, anyhow, he don’t even know us,” Jimmie Lee said.

“What’ll happen if he catches us? You reckon he will put us on the chain-gang?” June Bug asked.

“I don’t reckon he will put us on the chain-gang for stealing watermelons,” Jimmie Lee said.

June Bug is a scrawny, knock-kneed, ten-year-old boy with buckteeth and tangled brown hair. His real name is Junior Stonewall Lamar. People calls him June Bug because he likes to go to the cornfield and catch big green June beetles, tie a string around one of their legs, and watch them fly while he holds onto the string.

Willie B. is the youngest of the bunch. He is scared of my-neigh every thing. June Bug and Jimmy Lee always threaten to put a snake in his britches’ if he tells anybody that they sneak off and smoke cigarettes in the woods.

Later that night, after Sheriff Lumpkin resumed patrolling up and down the highway, the thieves decided to raid the watermelon patch again. They sat in the middle of the field eating watermelon with the juice dripping through their dirty fingers, swatting mosquitoes and watching lighting bugs flashing in the weeds.

***

Sheriff Lumpkin runs up and down the road in his old 1979 Ford patrol car, with the red light twirling and the siren blaring. He always ends up at the store, and finds one reason or another to hang around whenever seventeen year-old Rebecca is working. Rebecca is a pretty, little thing, with corn silk hair, and a complexion as smooth as an eel’s belly. Old men, often drop their train of thought or anything else they are holding onto whenever she walks past in her tight jeans.

“Owee, Rebecca is a ripe peach, ready for plucking,” they always leaned their heads together, whispering, nodding, and grinning at each other. “Did you say plucking?” someone would ask, and then they would burst out into wet lip blowing laughter.

One day Sheriff Lumpkin, as he often did, offered to give Rebecca a ride home. The watermelon thieves were down at the fishing-hole, buck naked, feeling around under the logs, mud-banks, and rocks trying to catch catfish with their bare hands. Suddenly they heard a roaring sound coming down across the pasture. They looked up and saw a ball of dust heading toward the swimming-lake. Suddenly the car swerved to the right and started toward the fishing-hole. They scrambled back through the cattails, grabbed their clothes, and hid in the thickets. Rebecca and Sheriff Lumpkin tarried in the car for a while. Rebecca, giggling, jumped out and ran naked down to the fishing-hole, and jumped into the water. Sheriff Lumpkin, yelling and slapping his naked backside followed close behind. They splashed around in the water for a while, and then dog paddled over and climbed into Mr. Coleman’s old yellow flat-bottom fishing boat, and disappeared. Soon the boat started bouncing around like a fishing bobber.

****

It was a busy, exciting time around the quiet little settlement of Mitford, as the pulpwood cutters, and mill workers prepared for the Fourth of July celebration. Men pulled weeds, and raked up cow chips in the pasture down near the swimming-lake. They prepared the field for the big baseball game, dug a trench in the ground, and filled it with hardwood logs so they would be ready to roast the calf that Mr. Coleman always provided.

Most of the women were down in the meadow near the creek, picking blackberries, and searching the peach orchard for the plumpest peaches they could find, for the pie-cooking contest.

The boys always hid when blackberries-picking time came. They didn’t like the little blood-sucking chiggers burrowing into their skin. They disliked having their mothers wipe them down with kerosene soaked rags to get rid of the chiggers even more. Jimmie Lee’s grandpa always said, sitting on the front porch rocking, and smoking his corncob pipe. “Boy you better not get too close to anybody with a match 'cause you might catch ‘afire.” He laughed with his eyes squinted, showing his pink gums.

Early on the morning of the Fourth, Floyd Coleman unpacked his American Flag and prepared to run it up the flagpole. He waited for the three surviving VFW members to show up. They stood at attention, and saluted, as did other patriotic members of the community when the flag went up the pole. Everybody clapped and shook hands with each other and belted out a chorus of God Bless America.

Mr. Coleman bought big blocks of ice from the ice plant over in Winnsboro. The men broke them into small pieces with sharp wooden-handle ice picks and placed the ice in ten-gallon tubs to cool the beer and pop down. A convoy of pulpwood trucks transported the tubs of beer, soda pops, watermelons and other items over to the picnic field.

The picnickers’ walked around eating catfish, roasted calf, hot dogs, and other foods. They drank big red pops and rooted for their favorite baseball team. Youngsters bounced up and down in burlap bags during the sack race. Others ran back and forth in and out of the lake. Some of the men folks went to the beer tub too many times and snoozed under the shade trees.

The watermelon thieves didn’t feel like participating in the watermelon-eating contest and decided to sneak around the bend to the fishing-hole to go skinny-dipping and cool-off a bit.

After a while Mr. Coleman noticed that the soda pop was running low and decided that he needed to go back up to the store to pick up a couple of cases.

“I can run up yonder and get it for you, Floyd. Maybe you ought to hang around in case something comes up,” Sheriff Lumpkin offered.

“Yeah, I reckon you can take Becky up yonder wit’ you. She can let you in and out the place. The missus is still at home finishing her pies. She might stop by the store but I’m not sure what time it’ll be. Y’all take the keys and go on,” he said handing the keys to Rebecca.

Sheriff Lumpkin drove up along the tree line and turned left behind the trees, then headed for the fishing-hole. Jimmie Lee and his friends heard the car coming. They ran over and hid in the weeds behind low hanging weeping willows.

Rebecca and Sheriff Lumpkin undressed quickly, ran in the water, sloshed over to the fishing boat, climbed in, and disappeared, as they listened to the picnickers’ voices on the other side of the tree. Jimmie Lee crawled on his belly through the weeds to the stake holding the rope tied to the boat, untied the knot, and waited for the boat to float away. The boat didn’t move at first. It just floated there in the same spot. Then the boat started bouncing up and down, and drifted into the current heading down stream.

A short while later, Sheriff Lumpkin’s head popped up. “Oh shit,” he said when the boat hit the moving current. The boys grabbed their clothes, dressed and ran back around to the picnic area.

Grabbing his shotgun from his truck, Floyd Coleman said,” what the heck’s going on?” He hobbled down to the edge of the water, watching his boat drift down stream. The other picnickers’ gathered around, pointing and mumbling.

Sheriff Lumpkin’s head popped up. “Hold your fire Floyd. Hold your fire. I’m on top of it,” he yelled, paddling and splashing frantically with one hand trying to guide the boat to the other side of the lake.

“What cha’ doing Eli?” Floyd yelled.

“Trying to sneak up on them watermelon snatchers,” he yelled with his arm hanging over the side of the boat splashing water.

The watermelon thieves were laughing so hard tears ran from their eyes as they rolled around in the dust like pigs wallowing in a mud-puddle.

“Sounds like Sheriff Lumpkin have got everything covered,” said Floyd Coleman, rubbing the top of his baldhead, shuffling back up the path to the picnic area.

-End-

__________________________________________________

Frank Gladden grew up near the small town of Winnsboro, South Carolina, where he enjoyed fishing, swimming naked in the creek, going barefoot, building rabbit boxes, and squirrel hunting with his .22 rifle. He spent eight years in the US Air Force. A retired accountant, he currently lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. His short stories or poetry appeared in Black World, Marriage, Reflect Magazine, The Story Teller, Timber Creek Review, The Oak, Mature Living, Fifty Something Magazine, Mississippi Crow, Cherry Blossom Review, New Works Review and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine.

Looks Like She's Sleeping

I have to admit it felt like a prank. An old geezer, someone I never saw in my life knocked on my door, and after verifying I was Maggie Bernett, handed me this ratty old envelope. I looked down at it and then up and I saw him swoop away like one of those movie witches you see so often.

My son Clem, who is seven and a hell raiser, arrived home early. I told him to go watch TV so I could read quietly.

The envelope contained directions and a map of Bonaventure cemetery. The note said, "Please meet me at the cemetery this coming Sunday, April 1st, at 3pm. I will be on the avenue that has a statue of a woman leaning her head on a pedestal. She looks like she's sleeping. Please come Maggie, and bring Clem, you won't regret it."

I can't explain why I decided to honor this request. It's beyond me how the mind and heart work, and the crazy things they make you do, but I felt I had to go.

Clem and I left our house early Sunday afternoon and I drove my rickety Dodge Omni to the top of the bluff, entering the cemetery around two-thirty. I tried to leave plenty of time for us to search the gigantic place. It was very old, with moss covering the statues and filled with large elegant oak trees that shaded much of the area - deep moist green - if you know what I mean. We finally found what I hoped was the right statue, there were so many, but none of the others looked like they were sleeping. Clem remained quiet and respectful, something unusual for him. But he seemed intrigued and maybe a little spooked. We both plopped down on the grass in front of the lovely lady and waited.

Clem, the little terror, began to get restless and got up to walk among the tombstones. He didn't get far before he yelled out to me.

"Mom," He stopped and checked the stone again. It was a small, flat and easily overlooked. "Mom, come here, this one has my name on it."

I didn't have to look; I knew it was Clem Sr. laying there. Who else could it be? He was my common law husband for over ten wonderful years. We had a magical life until Clem got himself drunk and became so jealous he killed a man he was sure I was having an affair with. It was nonsense, but the deed was done. He just left the body filled with knife wounds lying outside a local bar and took off. We were pretty sure the police were looking for him. He was in the bar acting up, and there could have been a witness to the crime. Our imaginations were flying all over the place. We decided the best way to deal with it was for Clem to disappear. He took enough cash to last a while, packed a small bag and was on the greyhound out of Savannah heading west. That was five years ago and it was the last time I saw or heard from him.

I gathered my strength and joined Clem Jr. near the stone to read the inscription: Clem Bernett, 1932-1976, He Died for Love. I reopened the note and saw that it was dated April 1, 1976, and today was April first. I looked around at all the solemn statues one last time, then took my son's hand and led him out of the cemetery. I didn't go into it with Clem; I figured we had plenty of time to talk about his dad in a few years, maybe never.

When we got home there was an envelope tacked on the front door. I pulled it down, but was afraid to read it. It had the same aged look as the other one. After I filled a large glass of brandy, I slowly opened it and sat down to read.

Dear Maggie-
I am making this the ‘note' you leave behind. I will give both envelopes to a friend and direct him to deliver them in one year from today, First the directions, and then this letter, so you'd get it after visiting me, which I surely hope you did. I chose today because it is our anniversary. It was the beginning and end of all that was good and decent in my life. I picked the spot next to the sleeping lady because she reminded me of you, so we can be together in some way. I think you know I can't live any longer with what I've done. Even worse, I can't live without you and our boy.
Goodbye then-
Clem

___________________________________________________________________

Eileen Elkinson has been writing for about two years and has published works in Bewildering Stories, Dew on the Kudzu, The Shine Journal, Western North Carolina Women, and is an editor/reader for Mezzozine Magazine. She lives in Asheville, N.C.
in the mountains.

***Look for the follow up to this story - "Saying Goodbye to Clem", on January 21