FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 43
Our conversations with Cheyenne often took us in different directions, just as did our hiking through the woods and alongside creeks and rivers. We never minded taking a detour, even one of those paths less traveled. Our entire journey, I suppose, was down such a trail.
You understand.
We had deviated in our talk about offering a benediction for the Class of ’74, as our fiftieth reunion transpired in our old hometown since our last conversation. Our talks sometimes were weeks apart, and Cheyenne was building his own memories, starting college and getting a taste of life beyond those high school years, even as we had to do, once.
After our trip to the reunion, Cheyenne and I reconvened the following weekend, and – as was his way – he introduced the story pretty quickly, perhaps his way, I thought, of getting a better perspective on his own journey.
“Popman,” he said, as I was helping him one evening with his essay over Mark Twain in his American Lit class, “how much did Twain affect you in your own writings?”
I mulled that question.
“On our trip back home last week,” I began, momentarily, “we crossed the Mississippi River about midday the first day. Every time we have crossed the river through all the years with your mama, your Bamaw, and Uncle Malachi, I would try to ‘wax poetic’ and say, ‘Ah, the river looked miles and miles across.’ That was the most memorable quotation for me from Huck Finn, to whom the river was a ‘great brown god.’ The river was a symbol of freedom for Huck and the slave Jim, but it also always mirrors the way that Twain wrote. His words flowed just as smoothly as that river. The river of Twain’s mind ran deep and wide, so his message was always powerful. But Twain’s genius went beyond that. He had the unique ability to take the grandeur of the river and other great images and put them in the simplest of words. That was his genius. His words were as simple as you and me talkin’ right here.
“That’s the greatest influence to me, to realize that the best writin’ is the simplest, that you do not have to ‘wax poetic,’ as I said. In fact, Twain’s writin’ often satirized the fancy writin’ of the previous generation, the Romantics.
“So, as I tell you about Doocy and all the boys out on the job, and about Corrina and that innocent romance, I think it’s Twain’s influence that helps us write it as we’re tellin’ it right here. One of the best compliments I’ve ever received, I think, came from a Professor Paschal from LaGrange College years ago, a gentleman with whom we would play basketball down at the Y on our trips home to see Grandma and enjoy her good cookin’.
Cheyenne smiled at that reference, because Grandma’s cooking was legendary, but it, too, could be both simple and profound.
“We were gettin’ water at the fountain between games,” I continued, “and we got to talkin’ about our writings in the LaGrange paper, and he said, ‘I think what makes your writin’ good is that the readers can all relate to it, like we're sitting talking to you.”
I paused to let that sink in to Cheyenne, then said, “Obviously, that was quite the compliment, and I always hoped that he was right, because, if he was, I knew I was a good bit like Twain himself. Our experiences down by the Chattahoochee River were Twain’s Mississippi-River tales.
“It is jus’ like where we are in the story right now. Corrina and I had gone to see Mama as she was beginnin’ to get into the later stages of her cancer, and that one little scene – Corrina’s sittin’ at Mama’s bedside and talkin’ to her as if they had known each other for years and years – that’s as simple as a scene as you’ll ever read.
“And it’s compellin’, too. It’s truth that is stranger than fiction. You see the character of both Mama and Corrina, and you grow to love them because of their genuineness. You can’t teach that. As we reach back to tell it, it is a little like lookin’ out over the Mississippi and watchin’ it flow as gently and majestically as anything. Some life-scenes are like that, both gentle and majestic.”
Cheyenne seemed satisfied with the answer, perhaps because he always looked at life a little deeper than your average nineteen-year-old.
“I guess it’s a little like Tolkien’s stories,” Cheyenne responded after thinking a moment, J.R.R. Tolkien being Cheyenne’s Mark Twain, “Gandalf once told Frodo, ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’ That’s simple but profound, too, like Twain, I guess.”
I smiled at the comparison, but then Cheyenne got us back on track.
“How did the scene with Great-grandma Louise and Corrina end up that night, Popman?” he said, and I immediately picked up the story.
It was a key moment in that summer, I began. After I left the room to get a drink and let the two ladies talk, I came back and stood in the doorway, not saying anything. I just stood back and watched the magic, watched the Lord weave His hand into the lives of everyone in that room. I thought that, yes, the Lord can take away a great many things, but – My! – look at what He can give, too. After a minute, I set the glasses down on the coffee table in the middle of the room and walked up and said,
“You ladies gonna talk all night?” and the three of us laughed together. As we did, Corrina looked at me, and for the first time I could see a little pain in her eyes, but she had hidden it away so that Mama could never see it.
“Well, Mama, I’ve got to take Corrina home, you rest up, I’ll look in on you when I get home” and I reached down and gave her a little hug. Corrina reached down and hugged her, too.
“You’re an amazing woman, Ms. Louise, she said, giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek and reaching over to wipe away one last tear left on Mama’s cheek. “You’re a brave woman. I love you already. I’ll never forget tonight.”
She stood up straight, still holding Mama’s hand and watching as Mama closed her eyes and began to drift off to sleep. After a moment, Corrina released Mama’s hand and grabbed mine, almost as if she needed extra strength in that moment. We walked out of the room together in silence.
“Cheyenne,” I said, “I realized something that night: Yes, God will wipe away all tears up in heaven, but I think that sometimes He summons angels to do it for Him down here, too.”
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.