FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 37

The further into the story, the more engaged Cheyenne became. I knew that when it came to the dark-haired beauty, he would be glued to every detail. He had wanted to hear about this ‘first date’ for a while now, so I obliged him.

Corrina wasn’t out on the porch when I pulled up in front of her house in my red ’65 Chevy Nova, “Sweet NovaLee.” I was a little nervous about walking in and having to engage her parents, because they seemed a little more formal than the folks at home. Of course, if somebody walked into Grandma’s and Preacher Miller’s brick house, they’d feel their house was formal, too, which it was. Few people we knew growing up lived in brick homes, including ours on Juniper.

The McClain house was in an old part of Roanoke – old but classy. You could tell that people in that area had old money. Their houses were all brick – classic old brick, too, like the money, I guess – and every house in the area was built in the early 1900s or before.

I had not known many people of that class growing up. Years later, we would get more familiar with these, what-I-would-call, ‘genteel’ people when we went on several years later to lay brick in Houston and did a good bit of work in southwest Houston, a part of town near Rice University that has older neighborhoods.

I was blessed to get to know many of that ‘class,’ and to my good fortune, I was also blessed that their older-types houses often found themselves in need of various types of brick-repair jobs as well as classic but new  home improvements such as brick patios, flower-bed borders, and walkways.

I paused at this juncture and said to Cheyenne, “When you think of it, I guess doin’ that type of restoration-type work on classy old houses matched pretty well with everything we would go on to do the rest of our lives, don’t you think?”

“Including telling and recreating this story after all these years,” he said, after a moment.

“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said with a smile, impressed, as always, with his intuitive look beneath the surface into things.

“Maybe especially re-telling this old story,” I said, “with all its old-school values and its distinct place in both our family’s history and the history of a leadin’ family from Rock Mills, Alabama.”

Cheyenne was quiet after that exchange and motioned with his hand for me to continue.

Mrs. McClain’s parents, I said, had owned their house for thirty years or so, Corrina would tell me, and then moved to a smaller place nearer town, at which time Corrina and their family moved in while their new house was being built. Her grandparents were about the age of my own, as Preacher Miller was born in Randolph County in 1909 and Grandma in 1910.

Roanoke, ironically, is in Randolph County, so Corrina and I had more ties than I realized. Not that we needed any other connection, because just the exchanging of a brief glance was plenty.

You understand.

We didn’t even need the blessings of her folks or mine, either, because we had already attained the full uncompromising blessing of Doocy and Pee Wee and the rest of the bricklaying crew, except maybe for Red who was seeing diminishing dollar signs more than the joy of a romance unfolding right before his very eyes.

Thinking on it then, though, I knew that the McClain’s were a step above the way we were raised. Mr. McClain owned the hardware store in town, so he was a fairly successful businessman. Mama, in contrast, worked at the Callaway Cotton Mill as far back as I can remember, and Daddy worked for the Standard Coffee Company for years, along with other jobs. None of those jobs were on the same level as I saw in Corrina’s people.

Plus, we lived in the part of LaGrange called the “mill village,” because most of the folks who lived around us worked at one or the several mills in the area.

It is not that social status affected me, because it didn’t, not really. I think I was raised in a way that I thought people were people, regardless of their status, or the size of their paychecks, or how big and beautiful their houses.

Thinking on it all now, all these years later, I am sure that the McClain’s did not consider it beneath Corrina to become enamored with the happy-go-lucky fella who pulled an Elijah and appeared one day out of nowhere onto the brick job at their dream house; and I have confidence that they were impressed with the work ethic it took to labor out on a hot, hard bricklaying job. I knew that bricklaying likely was as difficult as any job even they had had.

I say that I have “confidence,” but I am not sure my little smidgen of confidence did me a great deal of good when I found myself walking up to Corrina’s brick house. It sure had a far more genteel feel to it than when I ran through the back door of our 901-Juniper-Street house with the screen door slamming behind me, scaring all the flies away. I smile now even thinking of the contrast.

I parked “Sweet NovaLee” in front of the house and walked up a set of steps, then down a long brick walkway, before ascending on the last set of steps to the McClain porch. I noticed that the steps were in a herring-bone pattern – shaped like a ‘V’ – which already, even at my early stage of learning brickwork, was my favorite brick pattern. I would brick many herring-bone- patterned patios in southwest Houston in the years to come.

As every young man in the history of the world has done, I took a deep breath before I knocked on the door. No sooner had I knocked and breathed out, Corrina came to the door, and I could tell she was as anxious as I. I liked that she had enough confidence to come to the door quickly and not worry about seeming too eager.

“Cheyenne,” I said, “the further I get into tellin’ our story, the more I realize that she was wise beyond her years, despite her innocence. She was still naïve enough, if that’s a fair word, to be herself without worryin’ about it. Maybe she figured that if somebody liked you, little games would not be necessary.

“I was glad of that,” I said, “because I had too much on my mind with the job and Mama and all to try to figure out a girl. I was havin’ enough trouble figurin’ out Doocy.”

We both laughed at that, and I quickly added, “But as soon as I say that, it naturally wouldn’t be as easy as that, because Corrina would be true to womanhood all right and require more figurin’ out than what I expected. But it wasn’t her fault. It really wasn’t.”

Cheyenne’s eyes asked the next question even without his saying a word.

“Oh,” I said with a grin, “I blame the big ol’ cornfed country boy from Alabama.”

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 6:30 pm. Wednesdays. Email coachbowen1984@gmail.com or call or text (972) 824-5197.