FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 61

Mama, Corrina, and I had planned another ‘Fridays with Mama’ visit on what would have been the first or second Friday of July, not long before things took a turn for the worse. Since I knew we had a big evening, I hoped against hope that this Friday out on the job would be peaceful and calm, something that had never happened.

I’m not sure why I even wasted my time hoping it.

Sure enough, by nine a.m. we had a ‘small’ incident over on that north wall on that Rock Mills hill. We were topping out the north wall, which is quite a feat on this two-story house. Both sides of the house had gables that, overall, reached up over twenty-five feet. That means we had to build the scaffolds three scaffolds high. Getting mud up that high required that we stand up on a wheelbarrow, get about half a shovel of mud on the shovel, throw the shovel with the mud in it up to another laborer who was kneeled up top by a big mortar board, and that laborer – usually Willum – would catch it by the metal part of the shovel and dump it on the board.  Standing on the wheelbarrow performing that feat was a skill I was especially proud of, and it served as just one sample of the aura of the old days.

Corrina and her mama and sister Alane drove up that morning while we were working near the top of the wall; and I saw them out of the side of my eye, as always. They loved coming out and standing back to inspect the brickwork of their dream house in progress, and they stood admiring the intrigue of bricklaying until Pee Wee asked, “Reckon they are looking for a job?” and everybody laughed. Of course, the ladies didn’t hear it. But I didn’t blame their curiosity. I would spend thousands of hours on the brick wall in the years to come and never stopped being intrigued with it, either.

As the three ladies stood out by the pine trees on that north side – a good-ways from the action so as to be at a safe distance – Doocy started to climb up on the wheelbarrow to sling his shovel up to Willum who was up top on one knee, waiting for it.

Doocy had one foot already up on the wheelbarrow ready to climb up, and I caught him in time and pulled him back and said sassily, “Cool Breeze, I got this ‘un. I told you I’d get the next one if you’d a-listened to me,” and snatched the shovel out of his webbed hand and gave him a mean look. For self-preservation, I nodded discreetly toward the group of ladies standing about 40 feet away.

Still, Doocy didn’t take my sassiness lying down, and said, “Pups, the Cool Breeze can’t say you evah go’n t’see thet 17th b’day you got comin’  – fact is, the Breeze’ll be mighty surprised if you evah see the sun rise thet day, sho nuff.”

I smiled at his profound lingo and proceeded to ignore it accordingly. I climbed up on the wheelbarrow undeterred, balancing on both sides like a highwire artist and slung my first shovelful up eighteen feet to Willum, while Doocy was still mumbling about that birthday I’d be mighty lucky ever to see.

Over the years as I’ve thought back to that balancing feat, I’ve often thought that balancing up on that shaky wheelbarrow was a vivid description of the whole summer in a nutshell. Sometimes you kept your balance and the whole scene played out smoothly, and sometimes it would be a train wreck. I had seen both.

I kept my balance that morning, but that’s only part one. Part two, you have to rock that shovel then sling it and get it there just right, which I failed to do. My second or third throw fell short, and Willum reached down for it to save it without falling himself, but his hand slipped off of it. The shovel full of mud came tumbling down the scaffold playing a tune on the scaffold braces as it went, slinging mud ten feet every direction.

Everybody down on the ground or up on that middle scaffold ran for cover. I didn’t have anywhere to run, standing there helpless balancing on the wheelbarrow. I jumped off as soon as it started falling, threw my hands over my head for protection, and tried to outrun the falling shovel. When I jumped, that put the wheelbarrow out of balance and it ‘tumped’ over, sending me sprawling. I sprawled right into Doocy who was hollering and trying to get away himself. If not for his uncanny dexterity for a big man I would’ve gone headlong into a stack of bricks, but he saw where I was headed and reached back and grabbed me by the shirt like I was a rag doll.

I was on my backside when I saw the shovel land harmlessly on the inside of the scaffold, and I realized that Doocy had saved me from crashing into the stack of brick and cushioned my fall as we both landed against one of the pine trees that stood 15 feet from the house.

It took me a moment to gather myself as I lay there on top of Doocy. We didn’t realize there was a big red ant bed at the bottom of the tree. By the time Doocy realized it, it was too late. 

He pushed me off of him, howled the scariest yell any of us had ever heard, and ran as fast as he could to the water barrel. Nobody knew what he was hollering about until we saw him swiping at the back of his pants and shirt – then we figured it out. The water barrel was all the way on the other side of the house, but he made it over there in record time and jumped in the barrel feet first and started splashing water frantically and reaching down trying to free himself of all the ants down in his pants and in his shirt.

The whole chain gang crew had jumped down from the scaffold to behold the sight and were there to record the event as if every last one of them were journalists. The whole newsroom later agreed that that was the funniest scene they’d ever seen, except for maybe the two times the boy in the blue Ford truck came out on the job, the one you’ve heard about, the other yet to come.

When Doocy finally emerged from the water barrel, his pants were down by his ankles and his shirt was torn to shreds. We hollered for the ladies “Don’t look!” and tried to build a shield around Doocy standing there in his boxers in front of the whole world.

The scene wasn’t over yet. He emphatically told Red he wouldn’t wear those pants again, nor that shirt, that Red would have to take him home or else he’d walk, but Red, cursing as he went, dug out an old pair of overalls he had stuffed in the tool box for emergencies, and Doocy finally agreed to wear them.

By the time all the laughing and carrying on had concluded, Red had lost more money that day than he ever could have hoped to make.

And Doocy could never get those red ants out of his mind. Every day, you never knew when, Doocy would start hollering and begin swiping at his pants and the back of his shirt, fighting imaginary red ants in his pants. That went on all summer, and we would place bets many mornings as to how long it would be before the ants would come.

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.