FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 30

Telling Cheyenne the story of perhaps my most embarrassing moment would take some time, I knew, but I began telling it, nonetheless, knowing that if I never got to it that that would be far too soon.

Corrina and her mama came out to the job toward the end of the day that day. I had about conceded that she wasn’t coming out at all, and the fellas had been reading my mind and giving plenty of fake sympathies to contribute to my misery. But about thirty minutes before finishing time we saw the red dust floating in the air from the long driveway and could hear the loud motor of the Studebaker roaring over the sound of trowels clanking. Pee Wee let out a yell, more of a yelp, that said “Life is good again and the Pup can go back to living.”

Sarcasm abounds on a brick job.

I half-smiled, half-grimaced and popped off and asked if any one of that sorry lot would even have a life if it wasn’t for the “Pup’s love-life,” but that just made matters worse. You couldn’t win out there.

My heart jumped a tad when the Studebaker rounded the last curve leading up to the house. I could see the silhouette of the dark-haired girl riding up front by her mama, and I knew I’d have sweet dreams that night after all, as long as I could keep Doocy, Red, Pee Wee and the crew out of them.

I was over on the side of the house washing out the mixer as they drove up. We had made the last batch of mortar for the day. Usually, about 3:15 p.m. we’d make that last batch, and that would last until the four-o’clock quitting hour. I was spraying the mixer out well with the hosepipe, and I knew that once I got the mixer cleaned up and the bags of mortar covered with plastic that all I would have to do to finish up would be to pick up tools and get them in the truck.

Doocy along with William and Hook were handling the bricklayers, so I wasn’t needed to haul mud or brick at the time. With visions of stealing a moment with the dark-haired girl in mind, I put a hop in my step.

When Corrina jumped out of the Studebaker, she had a hop in her step, too, and we exchanged an immediate glance and smile, the way young folks do when they’re in puppy love.

Cheyenne jumped in with a little wit at that point of the story, and said, “I guess since you were the ‘Pup’ that it really was puppy love, wasn’t it, Popman?” and we laughed.

It didn’t take me long that day to get all the tools in Red’s toolboxes on the sides of the truck. We only took the small tools home with us at night, such as hammers and the brick pins you nail in the wall to hang a line, and other smaller items. The bigger tools: the wheelbarrows, brick tongs – which you use to pick up ten brick at a time – shovels, mortar hoes, and others we would stash in the garage, knowing they would be safe until the next day.

By the time I got everything picked up and loaded, it was ten minutes to four, and the workers were getting antsy to get everything wrapped up.

“I don’t get paid at 4:01,” ‘Willum,’ as Doocy calls him, mumbled to Red in his raspy voice, and I could tell he was the unofficial court-appointed counsel for all the others. About the time I slammed the toolbox shut on the truck, Corrina walked out of the front door of the house onto what was at that time a makeshift front porch. Porches are really something in those Southern houses. This one would run the entire length of the house and would be all brick. To make it more elegant, we would build huge brick steps, seven steps or so high, leading up to it since the house sat higher than the ground. We would end up bricking the porch and steps later, because – as Doocy told me – we didn’t want them to get damaged with all the carpenters and plumbers coming in and out of the house – and us, too, for that matter, since we would haul a good bit of the mortar and brick for the fireplace from the inside of the house. So, at the time, the porch was just a bunch of plywood boards laid across concrete blocks.

Corrina looked really excited when she walked out onto the plywood porch, and the 4 o’clock sun reflecting off of her face and dark hair made me wonder if the sun was shining on her or she was shining up on the sun. 

You understand.

She looked pretty that day. You might think that if you looked at Doocy and that bunch all day long that anything would look pretty good by the end of the day, but it went further than that. She had that “it” factor that is hard to come by.

When she stepped out on the porch, she waved for me to come to the house. I obeyed, after first making sure Red wasn’t anywhere in sight. I got to the porch quickly, and Corrina immediately grabbed me by the hand and said, “Pup, I’ve got to show you this.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that excited. Of course, I may have been the happiest I had ever been myself, right at that moment, especially with the way she called me ‘Pup.’ It just sounded differently than when Doocy would say it, although he said it pretty, too.

That part made Cheyenne laugh, but I deadpanned it and continued on with the story without hesitation.

She took me by the hand and said, “I’ve got to show you my room,” and once we got inside she let go of my hand and kind of skipped to the stairs by the front door, and said, “Come on, you’re going to love the view.”

Upstairs, she led me to the room on the west side of the house, and she led me straight to a huge picture window she said she had requested that allowed her a view of the forest of pine trees that seemed to stretch away for miles. The four o’clock sun was already shining down on them, and I could only imagine how pretty the scene would be in a few hours when the western sky would turn every shade of orange and purple with the sun easing below the horizon.

We looked out together, and Corrina began describing the landscaping that they would do in the back half an acre and the flower beds her mama, sister, and she wanted to plant. After a minute, I found myself looking at her instead of out the window as she chattered away excitedly. When she turned back to me, brushing her dark hair from her face, she caught me looking at her, and said, “Stop it,” but with a smile that told me she really didn’t mean stop it at all.

Thinking back, I think that day she was as joyful and innocent as I had ever seen.

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.