FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 62
The change of scenery from the Doocy’s yelping and hollering over the red ants to my standing on the McClain’s front porch as Corrina came out later that evening was an indescribable juxtaposition, although the incongruity was nothing new for the summer. I saw it every day. It is not that I wasn’t awfully fond of Doocy because clearly, I was, even as ridiculous and dramatic as he was. Truth is, if nothing else, looking at him every day made everything else in the world look a great deal better.
Including, Corrina, although she didn’t need the help.
My first glimpse of Corrina that evening reminds me of, years later, when I got my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon with all its layers and colors and depth. Looking at her, I thought, was like looking into a kaleidoscope. The way she dressed coming out to the jobsite was one thing, but going on a date, or coming to see Mama, was something different. She looked like a snow cone that night. She wore a loose, multi-colored dress down below the knee over the top of a sky-blue top, and ribbons in her hair to match. It looked like she walked out of a magazine and came to life.
Doocy, on the other hand, looked like he came straight out of a superhero comic book, and he was the nastiest of villains.
I could tell Corrina dressed to impress Mama, because she knew Mama dressed pretty, too. Mama didn’t get dressed anymore in her regular clothes, but she always wore a pretty house coat over her gown. My older sister Buella Mae, named after the aunt we lost tragically before we were born, bought her a colorful one when she came to visit from Texas at the beginning of the summer. It reminded me a little of Joseph’s coat of many colors, every color in the rainbow represented.
As soon as we walked into our Juniper Street living room that evening, Mama noticed Corrina’s pretty dress and carried on about it until she made Corrina blush. I let the ladies go about their business and went and showered and spruced up while she and Mama talked. I told them to hold off on the love story until I got back, that Mama has already told “Miss Belle,” more than she’s told me, I said with a laugh.
Corrina’s full name was Corrina Belle, or – as her mama called her often – Cori Belle, and sometimes I would call her either of those names, or Miss Belle, as in this case. I was partial to Belle because it was a family name. Grandma Belle was Zona Belle, and her grandmother from back in the mid-1800s was named Belle. Belle was a family name three or four generations back, so it got handed down with each generation.
“I like the name Belle,” I would tell Miss Belle, adding, “It has a good ring to it.”
We would laugh, only because it was so corny. That’s one advantage of being 16 and 16 and a half.
When I walked in wearing a healthy dose of Hai Karate, the colorful ladies were catching up on Corrina’s family and school, and Mama was saying, “You’re going to have such a good year your junior year, because I can tell you’ve grown so much this summer, you and Billy Ray both. I only made it through the 11th grade at LaGrange High School, but I had to quit early because a certain dark and handsome man insisted I quit so we could get married. Back then, it just seemed like the thing to do.”
“Tell me about getting married and how things were, Ms. Louise,” Corrina Belle said, glancing at me to let me know she waited on me as requested. Mama was in her most comfortable chair, with her feet propped up on a stool; and Corrina sat in the middle of the vinyl-covered green couch that was over against the east wall. I eased over and sat by Corrina on the end of the couch, close enough that I could reach over and touch her on the shoulder, but not too close. She was leaning up on the edge of the couch, her fingers interlaced, as if she was set in just the right position to sit on every word that Mama said. I leaned back and scooted down so I could rest my head on the back of the couch – and rest my eyes, too, if I could, just as long as I didn’t miss anything. I considered myself more of a spectator than a participant.
“When I married,” Mama said, her voice really strong that evening and not affected by the drugs as much, “I didn’t know how talented Zeke was, but it didn’t take me long. We both could cook, me because of Mama, who some say is the best cook Georgia ever saw,” Mama said with a laugh, “and Zeke because he was the third oldest boy and had to cook for his younger brothers and sisters after Charlie Lee and Jim went off to the war. They were poorer than we were, and we didn’t have much, but Mama and Daddy only had to raise three, Ma and Pa had eight mouths to feed.
“Zeke could make the best Brunswick Stew,” she said, then went on to describe how they made the stew back then, scraping the inside of a pig’s skull and I don’t know what all. Corrina cringed a little at that, making me chuckle and earn a well-placed punch on the shoulder.
“But Zeke just had the touch with Brunswick stew,” she said, and I chimed in with “And barbeque chicken, too, Mama.”
I kept my eyes closed, still sitting back and resting my sore muscles as I listened. I tried not to let my mind wander and get to remembering falling off of that wheelbarrow onto Doocy a few hours before and landing in a fighting mad red-ant bed.
“Oh, Corrina,” Mama continued, “You would’ve loved the thick sauce that he made with it and how we put it over two pieces of bread jus’ like you’d do your mama’s biscuits and gravy.
“And that was just the beginning for your daddy, Billy Ray,” Mama said, turning toward me for a moment but still glancing at Corrina, “he was as good of a nurse as you would find. Do you remember how he took care of Daddy after they had the car wreck?”
I nodded, because that was one of my favorite memories of my father. Daddy and I would walk early mornings the hills that led from where we were sitting that evening to Preacher Harvey and Grandma Belle’s brick house on Truitt Avenue. Daddy would go and help dress Grandaddy’s bandages and then help him do some physical therapy. Daddy was so good at nursing people – I guess, from having to tend to animals all his life as well as all his younger brothers and sisters.
“It wasn’t just the nursing your daddy did that was so remarkable,” said Mama, “but it was the heart he had for it. He loved people. He loved children, and I can see the same talent in you, Billy Ray. You remind me a lot of your daddy when he was about your age.”
Mama went on to tell the story of how the phone rang late one night in 1966, as she pointed at our black rotary dial phone that still sat in the corner of the living room just outside the door of her bedroom. I can still remember the phone ringing. I was not quite ten years old, because it all happened in the Spring. Mama told me to stay in bed, that she and Buella Mae were going to the hospital.
Preacher Harvey, my Grandma, and my Uncle Willie were coming home from a gospel meeting from over in Napoleon, Alabama, just twenty or so miles from Roanoke. They had gone to hear the best storytelling and songwriting preacher of the twentieth century in my book, Preacher Lynwood, from Mississippi. I always figured Brother Lynwood had gotten a little carried away that night telling one of his colorful Bible stories of the Prodigal Son or something and took longer than usual to get the son and his dusty feet out of the pigpen and on the long dirt road that leads back to his father’s house. As I got older and would hear that story, I would think of my own daddy when I thought of that story, and I imagined stepping into heaven and seeing him come running out to meet me as soon as he saw me coming. I still think that is the way it is going to be. I told that to Corrina on the way home that evening, and she said,
“I can see it right now, Pup. I’ve always thought if you dreamed or imagined something like that that it must be God’s way of telling you it will happen for you.”
“You know Mama will have to come out, too, because Mama is goin’ to have to go on ahead of us, too, before too long.” I didn’t go any further than that, because I didn’t want to make Corrina sad. I figured there was no need to mourn over something before its time.
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.