FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 46
“Aw, Cheyenne,” I said, unable to hide my smile. “That scene would be one of my favorites of my life. Really! It was somethin’ to behold!”
I could see Cheyenne’s interest piqued with my mention of the boy in the blue Ford truck, but even he could not have imagined just how big of a wrench somebody was about to throw into the saga. Nor you, either, I guess.
“The little country store over in Rock Mills,” I continued, “was no more than three or four miles from the McClain house. I made it there and back quickly, rounding the corner and near the red-dirt driveway in no more than fifteen minutes. I was still ridin’ high from the date with Corrina the night before; so, I was singin’ both comin’ and goin’. First, I hit some of Helen Ready’s ‘Delta Dawn,’” generously bursting into concert mode to give Cheyenne the full effect.
“By the time I turned onto the driveway, I had remembered the Billy Walker song – and later Willie Nelson – from earlier in the day:
‘Ain’t it funny how time slips away.’”
I didn’t want to deprive Cheyenne of any of this experience and of the background music of the 60s and 70s (something he appreciated, I could tell), so I sang that song again, just the way I did that July afternoon over in Roanoke, Alabama, only I’m sure I couldn’t match the same passion as I had that day.
Well, hello there, My, it’s been a long, long time
How am I doing? Oh, I guess that I’m doing fine …
I glanced over at Cheyenne, and he rolled his eyes, which I took as a request to raise the volume a notch:
It’s been so long now,
But it seems now, that it was only yesterday
Gee, ain’t it funny, how time slips away
“Okay, Popman, I get it,” Cheyenne blurted out. But even before he could finish his words, I cranked up the volume another decibel or two as I came to the “How’s your new love?” line.
How’s your new love? I hope that he’s doing fine?
I heard you told him, That you’d love him ‘til the end of time
Now, that’s the same thing that you told me,
Seems like just the other day
Gee, ain’t it funny, how time slips away
I possibly did not hit all of those words just right, and I admitted the same to Cheyenne, too.
“Popman,” he responded, “being sketchy on the words never seems to keep you from singing something at the top of your lungs!”
“True,” I said, grinning, "and I thank you for noticin’. But, you have to understand, that little tell-tale song may come back to haunt us before this summer’s done. I mean, if we aren’t careful, it may foreshadow some dark clouds for Corinna and me just ‘round the turn. I hope not, but it could.”
He glanced at him and could see that he saw through the tease easily.
I hesitated there, took a deep breath, knowing that the next step in the plotline was certainly going to test my meddle, as if we needed any more testing that summer. This tale was meant to be a novel all along, not a tragedy. I was hoping we could keep it that way.
As I topped the hill of the McClain drive, that ‘71 blue Ford was starting back down it, spinning his tires as if he was mad at – or scared of – the world, weaving a little, almost tail spinning. I eased way over to the edge of my side of the road, to be safe. By the time the two ships in the night met, he had built up a great deal of speed. He passed me with enough anger that the red dust he was raising was so thick I could barely see the driver and didn’t even waste the energy of giving the boy a Southern courtesy wave. His face was glued to the road.
I hurried my red truck to a halt in front of Corrina’s house, snatched up the sacks of RC’s and snacks and the bag of ice, and I was standing in the doorway of the living room in half a minute. I stopped there in my tracks, because the scene before me was unlike anything I’d ever seen before or could ever possibly expect to see again.
“Cheyenne,” I said, pausing for a little color commentary, “it is pretty funny tellin’ you the story, because it dawns on me that there are just some scenes that would pop up that summer that would be nearly impossible to make up. I’ve always said you never know what you’ll find when you walk through a door, and this scene that early July afternoon verified it a hundredfold, as the Bible would say. There would be more such scenes before this tale is told.”
What I saw as I stood in that doorway, I said, was Pee Wee, Doocy, and Willum just about rolling on the floor laughing. Willum was leading the choir this time, he with that hoarse laugh of his. Doocy managed to get up off the floor and climb back up on his bucket where he reverted just to slapping his leg as he laughed, putting every one of his missing teeth on full display. The whole time he was still holding onto half of a sandwich in his non-webbed hand but was too cranked up to try to eat it.
Pee Wee was standing up by his five-gallon lunch bucket, and he was looking down on Doocy and Willum and grinning bigger than usual, kind of like a possum playing plumb dead.
When I walked in, they all looked at me; and my very presence elevated the laughter. It was as if I had poured gasoline on them, and the fire burst into flames half a mile high.
After a minute, they regained their composure enough for each of them to try to get a few words out. The whole time I stood without budging in the doorway, holding that bag of ice and shaking my head at the pitiful scene.
“Pup, Pup, Pup,” Willum said, “you should’ve been here, you should’ve! It was the best thang I think ol’ Willum’s ever gonna get to see his whole life!”
He started from there to try to lay out the narrative as if he were the inaugural speaker in a storytelling contest. It wouldn’t make much sense if I told it the way he did, with laughter interlacing every three words. The best I ever have been able to do is take what I could make out and then fill in as many gaps as possible with the liberal contributions of the other crazed deliberators. That includes the contributions both there at that moment and then added details that would come along for ages and ages to come, for the story would be rehearsed at our every meeting for many decades.
Turning back to Cheyenne, I said,
“And if you’re waitin’ to hear Doocy’s version, just hang on. You’re about to hear world-class storytellin’ at its very best.”
With that last little tease, I hummed a little more classic country, trying to hide a sneaky smile from Cheyenne.
“Ah, ain’t it funny, how time just slips on away ...”
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 p.m. Wednesdays. Email coachbowen1984@gmail.com or call or text (972) 824-5197.