FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 25

“When did you learn the girl’s name?”

Cheyenne had asked the question then sat back on the log he had sat on by the creek, and waited. I looked out over the muddy water rolling over the rocks and dead limbs dangling in the water as I let the question soak in. He knew it was the question that was going to propel our drama forward quickly, but I was a little anxious to move the narrative on down that old red- dirt Alabama road, too.

“It wasn’t that first day, the day I ‘tumped’ that load of mud all over Doocy and the ground,” I said. “I’m glad of that, because my voice would’ve been way too shaky to have a talk with her that day. It was a couple of days after that, as I remember. It seemed like mid-afternoon about every day the black ’51 Studebaker would come ramblin’ up that road. Of course, I kept one eye on the red-dirt drive ever’ time I got over on the east side of the house where the mixer and the drive were.

“Doocy had caught me a time or two lookin’ down that way and would quip, ‘You’s be ‘spectin’ some company, today, Pup? Why’s you keepin’ lookin’ down by the road? There ain’t no brick bein' laid down by the Ro'noke Road, not nary a one. You need to keep yer eye on the prize, Puppy, keep ya eye on the prize …’

“But Doocy didn’t practice what he preached, I can tell you that. He kept his eye on me all the time, and I know I wasn’t a prize of any kind.”

I paused to let the story sink in and to arrange my thoughts just right, and I noted that Cheyenne slid up a little on the log, getting into the story more and more.

“On second thought,” I continued, “I may have been more of a prize than I give myself credit for, at least from the young girl’s point of view. When she came out the day that I actually met her, from that day forward every time that Studebaker would make its way up the drive there would be glee bigger than Christmas mornin’ all o’er the faces of ever’ one of those rough, rugged workers. This whole job was about to take on a whole new tone, and, lookin’ back, that wasn’t a bad thing at all.

“The day I met the girl, she and her mom were by themselves. I don’t know where the sister and dad were that day. I think Mrs. McClain came out to start measurin’ some of the windows. I watched as best I could as they got out of the car, out of the side of my eye, of course; but I was pretty busy that mornin’, because we had begun workin' on the fireplace and the chimney. We were haulin’ tons of brick on the inside of the house to stock up the outside scaffold from the inside.

“A real chimney ‘made from scratch,’ as I call it, takes several thousand brick to fill it up to the brim. That is one of the ways the bricklayers make their money, because they get paid by the brick. I don’t know the goin’ rate back in 1973, but I would say it would have been somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.75 per brick, which means Red would make about a hundred and seventy-five dollars per thousand.

“I had tried to steal a glance at the girl a time or two as I hauled brick inside, without much luck; but after a while, Doocy instructed me to go out and make a batch of mud. I was glad for the change of pace; but I was even more glad when I headed outside to make the mud to see the girl standin’ out on the far side of the sandpile. I was hopin’ to get the courage to walk over to her before I cranked up the mixer, because you can’t talk over that racket. I noticed she had slipped off her sandals and was kind of runnin’ her feet through the sand, and I noted (not that I was payin' attention, or anything) the contrast between the white sand that came off of the Chattahoochee River and her tanned legs that came from the hot summer we were havin’ already.

“The stack of mortar bags was over by where she was fidgetin’ in the sand, so that gave me an excuse to walk that way. I guess I kind of smiled at her and said ‘hey,’ and she said ‘hey’ back. You know how hard it is to talk to girls when you’re sixteen goin’ on seventeen. That goes both ways, because I could tell she was pretty shy. But I got my courage up as I grabbed a bag of mortar mix.  

“What’s ya name?’ I said, stammerin’ a little, I’m sure.

“Corinna,’ she said softly, and the name gave me a good reason to smile.

“I like that,’ I said, coolly, grabbin’ another bag of mortar, intentionally flexin’ my muscles as I pulled it close to my chest. It’s not that you have to fake flexin’ your muscles when a bag weighs right at seventy pounds. I tossed the bag onto the sandpile near the mixed and, simultaneously, tossed a glance toward the house to see if anybody – namely Red or Doocy – had noticed I was out talkin’ to the girl.

“Nobody was lookin’ at the moment, so I prodded a little more as I grabbed a bucket of water to put in the mixer. You would put a couple of five-gallon buckets of water in the mixer when you started makin’ a batch of mortar; so that bought me a little time before I had to crank it up and drown out every sound in the world for the next ten minutes.

“Why’d your mom and dad name you that?” I asked, “Was it the song?”

“Mostly, I think,” she said, and I noticed that she had one of those sweet Southern accents that was immaculate, reminding me a little of my teacher Mrs. Long’s pristine English. “I had to do some research in school once, and I learned that a Blues singer named Bob Wills was one of the first to sing the song. My daddy has always been a big Bob Wills fan, so I was the beneficiary of that.”

“I was a little surprised for her to be as talkative as that,” I said to Cheyenne, listening intently. “And who uses words like ‘beneficiary’ as if you were sayin’ ‘over yonder’ or something,” I said with a grin. “Just when I wanted to respond, though, Red came around the side of the house, and I was about to be the beneficiary of some serious hinny-chewin’.

“Pup, why hain’t that mixer runnin’ yet. Come on, boy, we’re waitin’ on the mud, let’s go, what-in-the-world are you doin’? I ain’t payin’ you to talk, I’m payin’ you to work, come on, Pup …’ and so on and so forth.

“I looked at Corrina and grimaced, a gesture she returned amiably, throwin’ in a little Southern smile for good measure. I grabbed the rope to crank the mixer and started wrappin’ it around the coil and was about to yank it for the first pull when she said, almost whispering,

“Oh, what’s your name?’” she asked. “It’s not ‘Pup,’ I’m guessin’.”

I smiled at her wit.

“My mama named me ‘Billy Ray,’ I said, as I yanked the rope, then hollered over the sound of the mixer, “but you can call me ‘Pup,’ and, with that turned my attention the blades of the mixer churnin’ away and splashin’ the water like the waves on the ocean.

“I couldn’t help but to think that the roar of the mixer sounded like waves crashin’ against rocks, and it drowned out everything else in the world for the next few minutes, except it couldn’t drown out the fact that the past two minutes may have been about the best two minutes of this young life so far.”

Coach Steven Bowen, a long-time Red Oak teacher and coach, now enjoys his time as a writer and preacher of the gospel. And, after a ten-year hiatus, he’s also returned to work with students at Ferris High School as well.

Part 25

Waves churnin’ on the sand.                

“When did you learn the girl’s name?”

Cheyenne had asked the question then sat back on the log he had sat on by the creek, and waited. I looked out over the muddy water rolling over the rocks and dead limbs dangling in the water as I let the question soak in. He knew it was the question that was going to propel our drama forward quickly, but I was a little anxious to move the narrative on down that old red- dirt Alabama road, too.

“It wasn’t that first day, the day I ‘tumped’ that load of mud all over Doocy and the ground,” I said. “I’m glad of that, because my voice would’ve been way too shaky to have a talk with her that day. It was a couple of days after that, as I remember. It seemed like mid-afternoon about every day the black ’51 Studebaker would come ramblin’ up that road. Of course, I kept one eye on the red-dirt drive ever’ time I got over on the east side of the house where the mixer and the drive were.

“Doocy had caught me a time or two lookin’ down that way and would quip, ‘You’s be ‘spectin’ some company, today, Pup? Why’s you keepin’ lookin’ down by the road? There ain’t no brick bein' laid down by the Ro'noke Road, not nary a one. You need to keep yer eye on the prize, Puppy, keep ya eye on the prize …’

“But Doocy didn’t practice what he preached, I can tell you that. He kept his eye on me all the time, and I know I wasn’t a prize of any kind.”

I paused to let the story sink in and to arrange my thoughts just right, and I noted that Cheyenne slid up a little on the log, getting into the story more and more.

“On second thought,” I continued, “I may have been more of a prize than I give myself credit for, at least from the young girl’s point of view. When she came out the day that I actually met her, from that day forward every time that Studebaker would make its way up the drive there would be glee bigger than Christmas mornin’ all o’er the faces of ever’ one of those rough, rugged workers. This whole job was about to take on a whole new tone, and, lookin’ back, that wasn’t a bad thing at all.

“The day I met the girl, she and her mom were by themselves. I don’t know where the sister and dad were that day. I think Mrs. McClain came out to start measurin’ some of the windows. I watched as best I could as they got out of the car, out of the side of my eye, of course; but I was pretty busy that mornin’, because we had begun workin' on the fireplace and the chimney. We were haulin’ tons of brick on the inside of the house to stock up the outside scaffold from the inside.

“A real chimney ‘made from scratch,’ as I call it, takes several thousand brick to fill it up to the brim. That is one of the ways the bricklayers make their money, because they get paid by the brick. I don’t know the goin’ rate back in 1973, but I would say it would have been somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.75 per brick, which means Red would make about a hundred and seventy-five dollars per thousand.

“I had tried to steal a glance at the girl a time or two as I hauled brick inside, without much luck; but after a while, Doocy instructed me to go out and make a batch of mud. I was glad for the change of pace; but I was even more glad when I headed outside to make the mud to see the girl standin’ out on the far side of the sandpile. I was hopin’ to get the courage to walk over to her before I cranked up the mixer, because you can’t talk over that racket. I noticed she had slipped off her sandals and was kind of runnin’ her feet through the sand, and I noted (not that I was payin' attention, or anything) the contrast between the white sand that came off of the Chattahoochee River and her tanned legs that came from the hot summer we were havin’ already.

“The stack of mortar bags was over by where she was fidgetin’ in the sand, so that gave me an excuse to walk that way. I guess I kind of smiled at her and said ‘hey,’ and she said ‘hey’ back. You know how hard it is to talk to girls when you’re sixteen goin’ on seventeen. That goes both ways, because I could tell she was pretty shy. But I got my courage up as I grabbed a bag of mortar mix.  

“What’s ya name?’ I said, stammerin’ a little, I’m sure.

“Corinna,’ she said softly, and the name gave me a good reason to smile.

“I like that,’ I said, coolly, grabbin’ another bag of mortar, intentionally flexin’ my muscles as I pulled it close to my chest. It’s not that you have to fake flexin’ your muscles when a bag weighs right at seventy pounds. I tossed the bag onto the sandpile near the mixed and, simultaneously, tossed a glance toward the house to see if anybody – namely Red or Doocy – had noticed I was out talkin’ to the girl.

“Nobody was lookin’ at the moment, so I prodded a little more as I grabbed a bucket of water to put in the mixer. You would put a couple of five-gallon buckets of water in the mixer when you started makin’ a batch of mortar; so that bought me a little time before I had to crank it up and drown out every sound in the world for the next ten minutes.

“Why’d your mom and dad name you that?” I asked, “Was it the song?”

“Mostly, I think,” she said, and I noticed that she had one of those sweet Southern accents that was immaculate, reminding me a little of my teacher Mrs. Long’s pristine English. “I had to do some research in school once, and I learned that a Blues singer named Bob Wills was one of the first to sing the song. My daddy has always been a big Bob Wills fan, so I was the beneficiary of that.”

“I was a little surprised for her to be as talkative as that,” I said to Cheyenne, listening intently. “And who uses words like ‘beneficiary’ as if you were sayin’ ‘over yonder’ or something,” I said with a grin. “Just when I wanted to respond, though, Red came around the side of the house, and I was about to be the beneficiary of some serious hinny-chewin’.

“Pup, why hain’t that mixer runnin’ yet. Come on, boy, we’re waitin’ on the mud, let’s go, what-in-the-world are you doin’? I ain’t payin’ you to talk, I’m payin’ you to work, come on, Pup …’ and so on and so forth.

“I looked at Corrina and grimaced, a gesture she returned amiably, throwin’ in a little Southern smile for good measure. I grabbed the rope to crank the mixer and started wrappin’ it around the coil and was about to yank it for the first pull when she said, almost whispering,

“Oh, what’s your name?’” she asked. “It’s not ‘Pup,’ I’m guessin’.”

I smiled at her wit.

“My mama named me ‘Billy Ray,’ I said, as I yanked the rope, then hollered over the sound of the mixer, “but you can call me ‘Pup,’ and, with that turned my attention the blades of the mixer churnin’ away and splashin’ the water like the waves on the ocean.

“I couldn’t help but to think that the roar of the mixer sounded like waves crashin’ against rocks, and it drowned out everything else in the world for the next few minutes, except it couldn’t drown out the fact that the past two minutes may have been about the best two minutes of this young life so far.”

Coach Steven Bowen, a long-time Red Oak teacher and coach, now enjoys his time as a writer and preacher of the gospel. And, after a ten-year hiatus, he’s also returned to work with students at Ferris High School as well.

Part 25

Waves churnin’ on the sand.                

“When did you learn the girl’s name?”

Cheyenne had asked the question then sat back on the log he had sat on by the creek, and waited. I looked out over the muddy water rolling over the rocks and dead limbs dangling in the water as I let the question soak in. He knew it was the question that was going to propel our drama forward quickly, but I was a little anxious to move the narrative on down that old red- dirt Alabama road, too.

“It wasn’t that first day, the day I ‘tumped’ that load of mud all over Doocy and the ground,” I said. “I’m glad of that, because my voice would’ve been way too shaky to have a talk with her that day. It was a couple of days after that, as I remember. It seemed like mid-afternoon about every day the black ’51 Studebaker would come ramblin’ up that road. Of course, I kept one eye on the red-dirt drive ever’ time I got over on the east side of the house where the mixer and the drive were.

“Doocy had caught me a time or two lookin’ down that way and would quip, ‘You’s be ‘spectin’ some company, today, Pup? Why’s you keepin’ lookin’ down by the road? There ain’t no brick bein' laid down by the Ro'noke Road, not nary a one. You need to keep yer eye on the prize, Puppy, keep ya eye on the prize …’

“But Doocy didn’t practice what he preached, I can tell you that. He kept his eye on me all the time, and I know I wasn’t a prize of any kind.”

I paused to let the story sink in and to arrange my thoughts just right, and I noted that Cheyenne slid up a little on the log, getting into the story more and more.

“On second thought,” I continued, “I may have been more of a prize than I give myself credit for, at least from the young girl’s point of view. When she came out the day that I actually met her, from that day forward every time that Studebaker would make its way up the drive there would be glee bigger than Christmas mornin’ all o’er the faces of ever’ one of those rough, rugged workers. This whole job was about to take on a whole new tone, and, lookin’ back, that wasn’t a bad thing at all.

“The day I met the girl, she and her mom were by themselves. I don’t know where the sister and dad were that day. I think Mrs. McClain came out to start measurin’ some of the windows. I watched as best I could as they got out of the car, out of the side of my eye, of course; but I was pretty busy that mornin’, because we had begun workin' on the fireplace and the chimney. We were haulin’ tons of brick on the inside of the house to stock up the outside scaffold from the inside.

“A real chimney ‘made from scratch,’ as I call it, takes several thousand brick to fill it up to the brim. That is one of the ways the bricklayers make their money, because they get paid by the brick. I don’t know the goin’ rate back in 1973, but I would say it would have been somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.75 per brick, which means Red would make about a hundred and seventy-five dollars per thousand.

“I had tried to steal a glance at the girl a time or two as I hauled brick inside, without much luck; but after a while, Doocy instructed me to go out and make a batch of mud. I was glad for the change of pace; but I was even more glad when I headed outside to make the mud to see the girl standin’ out on the far side of the sandpile. I was hopin’ to get the courage to walk over to her before I cranked up the mixer, because you can’t talk over that racket. I noticed she had slipped off her sandals and was kind of runnin’ her feet through the sand, and I noted (not that I was payin' attention, or anything) the contrast between the white sand that came off of the Chattahoochee River and her tanned legs that came from the hot summer we were havin’ already.

“The stack of mortar bags was over by where she was fidgetin’ in the sand, so that gave me an excuse to walk that way. I guess I kind of smiled at her and said ‘hey,’ and she said ‘hey’ back. You know how hard it is to talk to girls when you’re sixteen goin’ on seventeen. That goes both ways, because I could tell she was pretty shy. But I got my courage up as I grabbed a bag of mortar mix.  

“What’s ya name?’ I said, stammerin’ a little, I’m sure.

“Corinna,’ she said softly, and the name gave me a good reason to smile.

“I like that,’ I said, coolly, grabbin’ another bag of mortar, intentionally flexin’ my muscles as I pulled it close to my chest. It’s not that you have to fake flexin’ your muscles when a bag weighs right at seventy pounds. I tossed the bag onto the sandpile near the mixed and, simultaneously, tossed a glance toward the house to see if anybody – namely Red or Doocy – had noticed I was out talkin’ to the girl.

“Nobody was lookin’ at the moment, so I prodded a little more as I grabbed a bucket of water to put in the mixer. You would put a couple of five-gallon buckets of water in the mixer when you started makin’ a batch of mortar; so that bought me a little time before I had to crank it up and drown out every sound in the world for the next ten minutes.

“Why’d your mom and dad name you that?” I asked, “Was it the song?”

“Mostly, I think,” she said, and I noticed that she had one of those sweet Southern accents that was immaculate, reminding me a little of my teacher Mrs. Long’s pristine English. “I had to do some research in school once, and I learned that a Blues singer named Bob Wills was one of the first to sing the song. My daddy has always been a big Bob Wills fan, so I was the beneficiary of that.”

“I was a little surprised for her to be as talkative as that,” I said to Cheyenne, listening intently. “And who uses words like ‘beneficiary’ as if you were sayin’ ‘over yonder’ or something,” I said with a grin. “Just when I wanted to respond, though, Red came around the side of the house, and I was about to be the beneficiary of some serious hinny-chewin’.

“Pup, why hain’t that mixer runnin’ yet. Come on, boy, we’re waitin’ on the mud, let’s go, what-in-the-world are you doin’? I ain’t payin’ you to talk, I’m payin’ you to work, come on, Pup …’ and so on and so forth.

“I looked at Corrina and grimaced, a gesture she returned amiably, throwin’ in a little Southern smile for good measure. I grabbed the rope to crank the mixer and started wrappin’ it around the coil and was about to yank it for the first pull when she said, almost whispering,

“Oh, what’s your name?’” she asked. “It’s not ‘Pup,’ I’m guessin’.”

I smiled at her wit.

“My mama named me ‘Billy Ray,’ I said, as I yanked the rope, then hollered over the sound of the mixer, “but you can call me ‘Pup,’ and, with that turned my attention the blades of the mixer churnin’ away and splashin’ the water like the waves on the ocean.

“I couldn’t help but to think that the roar of the mixer sounded like waves crashin’ against rocks, and it drowned out everything else in the world for the next few minutes, except it couldn’t drown out the fact that the past two minutes may have been about the best two minutes of this young life so far.”

Coach Steven Bowen, a long-time Red Oak teacher and coach, now enjoys his time as a writer and preacher of the gospel. And, after a ten-year hiatus, he’s also returned to work with students at Ferris High School as well.

In addition to his evangelistic travels, he works and writes for the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl Road and Ovilla. Their worship times are 10 a.m. Sundays and 7:30 pm. Wednesdays. Email coachbowen1984@gmail.com or call or text (972) 824-5197.