tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2235112678401011152024-03-13T11:58:56.136-04:00A Wide Front PorchShort Stories -A Southern PerspectiveA Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-55658153770061572372010-06-18T22:45:00.002-04:002010-06-18T23:00:59.458-04:00Virginia Ruth 1932-2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl6_aE-QqtQBSvykIIpLlzOne5wF0TOM4l3NPvq9K9hhAGke77lawXioaDvCKIhugEcm8PhCPl-o2gsU7KIgRZr-06wZc6Ec7XzGvh7ZmuyP9Bre0Yje6OFXFP9igRDaXA39a2ly6Ge0cD/s1600/2521826186_eaafa98b65_m.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl6_aE-QqtQBSvykIIpLlzOne5wF0TOM4l3NPvq9K9hhAGke77lawXioaDvCKIhugEcm8PhCPl-o2gsU7KIgRZr-06wZc6Ec7XzGvh7ZmuyP9Bre0Yje6OFXFP9igRDaXA39a2ly6Ge0cD/s320/2521826186_eaafa98b65_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484312561277233458" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><div class="entrybody"><p><strong>“who in the hell<br />buries old folks<br />at noon<br />in the middle of the summer?<br />daaaammmmnnnn”</strong><br />he thought<br />as he took the 3rd drag<br />from his cigarette<br />sweltering in Georgia’s June heat<br />beneath his brown polyester suit<br />squinting from the glare<br />of midday sun off the hearse’s grill</p><p>he hated<br />funerals <br />god<br />his wife<br />the fake sincerity<br />he offered week after week<br />to the families<br />of blue haired old ladies<br />but<br />this had been his Pa’s bizness<br />and he lacked the gumption to try anything else</p><p>The preacher babbled on aimlessly<br />Virginia Ruth’s daughter cried.<br />Her grandson laid a pink carnation<br />across her steel gray casket.<br />Ms. Virginia had planned this day<br />oh so carefully, each detail finely honed</p><p>Nervous about the fact that the<br />funeral director was gonna see her naked<br />as he embalmed her – No man had seen<br />her naked since her<br />Robert Earl had not come back from Korea<br />that terrible January in 1952.</p><p>She would have felt betrayed<br />by his sweat and indifference.<br />His exhales over nicotine,<br />while Preacher Turnipseed<br />was sending her home<br />to be with God.</p><p>He plotted his final revenge.<br />An elaborate display of mourning<br />that would be required<br />on the day of his passing<br />to be orchestrated<br />by the chubby wife<br />who held him in quiet disdain.<br />Ornate finery, pipe organs, rose wreaths.</p><p>Little did he know.<br />She was cremating his ass<br />takin’ the insurance money<br />and<br />headin’ to Cancun<br />with their gravedigger.</p></div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-78229529339636101992010-06-18T22:39:00.003-04:002010-06-19T10:11:17.860-04:00the grass is always greener<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ktsEPDKnSqArLjbgmlp7Iq-BPGzJXdhLcOMlIQQ1eBTawXYzOWDMY0pR4B-T9vYsjmPip_-P7HWia-l7zugfFXmj3mNPdgoGH__xbO8fD7Ti54imjxBS8cwVbRU_5zWn3gNfn01cYxij/s1600/4379726230_30331e6a80_m.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ktsEPDKnSqArLjbgmlp7Iq-BPGzJXdhLcOMlIQQ1eBTawXYzOWDMY0pR4B-T9vYsjmPip_-P7HWia-l7zugfFXmj3mNPdgoGH__xbO8fD7Ti54imjxBS8cwVbRU_5zWn3gNfn01cYxij/s320/4379726230_30331e6a80_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484309264872326674" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><div class="entrybody"><p>She wasn’t particularly beautiful<br />even though her mama had named her after<br />Elvis and Priscilla’s own<br />when Elvis reigned king in these parts -<br />but Lisa Marie Smithwhick was <em>good</em>.</p><p>She raised her younguns to believe in the Lord<br />read Woman’s World magazine, canned beans in the summer,<br />was in the recipe circle at church, always had perfect daylilies, coached softball, and believed the stories on the Lifetime channel.<br />Her doublewide was gonna be paid<br />for in the Fall and she wasn’t yet 43.</p><p>Every Wednesday night when Mr. Merritt, Lisa Marie’s neighbor,<br />watches Jeopardy and reads the paper, he hears<br />Lisa Marie’s boyfriend comin’ down the alley<br />in his ole ‘72 Ford -<br />glasses perched precariously on<br />the edge of his nose,<br />never liftin an eye from the page,<br />he says to his wife<br /><em>“tonight’s Lisa Marie’s sex night”</em><br />This is the steady momentum by which her world runs.</p><p>Cinnamon Rose Southall<br />was the antithesis of all of these things.<br />She never used a recipe when she cooked,<br />hated TV, could kill a silk plant,<br />had moved 6 times in the last 7 years,<br />read Russian poetry, didn’t believe in softball<br />and sometimes wondered about the Lord –<br />‘cept at sunset and when she held her babies.<br />Then the Lord was real to her.<br />She was a bit of a gypsy.<br /><em>‘Wayward’</em> is what her Grandma had called her.</p><p>No one woulda ever thought they could meet at the fence<br />and talk ‘til the mosquitoes started bitin’.<br />The daylillies leavin dust on their knees as they<br />discussed the grocery’s ad, local headlines,<br />giggles, tomato vines, and gossip.</p><p>Lisa Marie had finally convinced her Mama<br />that the girl with the funny name was just like them,<br />worthy of being spoken to when she bumped into her<br />down at the dollar store<br />and<br />Cinnamon Rose always walked away wonderin’<br />what it felt like to have someone love you enough<br />to save Wednesday nights just for you.</p><p>An interchange of worlds completely separate<br />existing calmly within each other.</p><p><sup>Maybe they should send some chain link fence<br />and daylillies to the Middle East, instead of tanks.</sup></p></div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-27324582076503443062010-06-18T22:26:00.002-04:002010-06-18T22:35:01.899-04:00memories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpVMLrJ-bDUC2Gr7L5-HkndpM0wzgaMcUE9UrXOBE114i5bRatTgZxMIo21y_qFSwvPCF2ifBrPXFW4aumNyylWMmPHZ6QrOTwQGC2zref_Dk9VcLxy20f57WqnBedLZdmOV_s6JXSSdM/s1600/woman_at_piano.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpVMLrJ-bDUC2Gr7L5-HkndpM0wzgaMcUE9UrXOBE114i5bRatTgZxMIo21y_qFSwvPCF2ifBrPXFW4aumNyylWMmPHZ6QrOTwQGC2zref_Dk9VcLxy20f57WqnBedLZdmOV_s6JXSSdM/s320/woman_at_piano.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484306685105390322" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 204, 102);"><div class="entrybody"><p>Rebecca -<br />eloquent, serene, beyond beautiful.<br />The timeless image<br />of a girl in a flowing dress –<br />one you would have found over your<br />grandmother’s piano in 1934.</p><p>The only child<br />of a difficult divorce -<br />she spent her weekends<br />in the country<br />with Granny. Her haven from real life.<br />Harlequin Romance, black coffee,<br />perfect biscuit, mouth of a sailor Granny.</p><p>Hide n seek in the corn patch,<br />swingin’ from the tire swing<br />'neath the old pecan tree,<br />dreams of adulthood and<br />the ability to make<br />her own decisions<br />while she stared at fluffy clouds<br />over by the tigerlily patch,<br />bluegrass on her front porch<br />‘til the fireflies<br />went to sleep….<br />idealistic it all seems<br />to one glancing retrospectively.</p><p>Time slowly turns her awkward childhood<br />into a stunning woman.<br />Granny becomes a widow,<br />moves to town,<br />marries a general,<br />lives in a 3 bedroom ranch,<br />wears diamonds,<br />quits smoking,<br />reads Barbara Taylor Bradford<br />now.</p><p>Rebecca<br />becomes the bride<br />of that handsome lawyer<br />from New York. She’s been to Ireland.<br />Drives a ‘fancy’ foreign thang.<br />One of them cars made over in Europe.<br />Has had her hair straightened,<br />a new house up in the mountains,<br />and plays her great grandmother’s piano<br />in the front hall.</p><p>Granny thinks about her all the time.<br />Remembers when she used to call just to say ‘i love you’.<br />Granny still sends a card every birthday,<br />wonders if she shouldn’t have married the general,<br />worn diamonds as much, maybe she shoulda made more biscuits.<br />She prays to understand where she went wrong<br />or maybe....it’s just kids these days.</p><p>Rebecca,<br />buries herself in<br />the duties of being a lawyer’s wife.<br />Remembers rockin’ on the porch<br />with Granny at midnight,<br />listening to the cicadas sing,<br />and wonderin’ how Granny didn’t know<br />Grandpa was touchin’ her<br />in all those bad places.</p></div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-3101863126628568672010-06-18T22:24:00.003-04:002010-06-18T22:26:02.966-04:00she prays regular<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44vZUomwMkf6Xteb1JO6XcgMB0gfuVi_pEMe4R56f7yKbAr7rQiadnHT4T77VxslWMpo1Xavun8K-jIdp76tgn1JumT6Q6gW38nW4xilGblGyA4-ZslcCgY64qEcFG6RJBu0cuhdxdl_F/s1600/2077240705_36c7263bab_m.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44vZUomwMkf6Xteb1JO6XcgMB0gfuVi_pEMe4R56f7yKbAr7rQiadnHT4T77VxslWMpo1Xavun8K-jIdp76tgn1JumT6Q6gW38nW4xilGblGyA4-ZslcCgY64qEcFG6RJBu0cuhdxdl_F/s320/2077240705_36c7263bab_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484305140963586258" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><div class="entrybody"><p>they found him<br />slumped over by the back fence<br />where he used to dump<br />the pea hulls after shellin’<br />them with her<br />under the carport<br />‘neath the fishin poles.</p><p>the gun was still<br />layin’ there on the ground<br />in the tall summer grass</p><p>He wasn’t her first grandchild<br />or the only boy<br />but he was the one<br />that needed her most.<br />In her simple understanding<br />and limited experience of affection,<br />need was synonymous with love.<br />So, he was the one that<br />loved her the most.</p><p>When she came to<br />they tried to tell her<br />there was no one to blame<br />but him. She screamed in rage.<br />Pointed her finger,<br />assured the officers<br />that ‘the coloreds’ from<br />down in the projects<br />had done this to him.</p><p>She buried him nicely.<br />Too full of anger and indignation<br />to cry. Too hot in a Georgia July<br />to linger over his grave.</p><p>It’s been 20 years now.<br />She makes quilts for needy ones.<br />Still shells peas in the summer.<br />Volunteers with the church.<br />Goes to prayer supper every Wednesday night<br />prays for his soul and tells anyone that’ll<br />listen that the Sheriff is still workin’ with her<br />on findin’ the colored boys that did this to her baby.</p><p>We each do what we must<br />to bear the lines<br />of our story.</p></div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-19846791515649893392010-06-18T07:19:00.003-04:002010-06-18T07:26:28.482-04:00a ballad<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3CGTe0JUtDompIC-Euan6BTwOOr5BOunDcLybDzLswTUX8-Wr0YqwwnJBIb-soc5NL6DdtqsBFsL_fYv2lUGoDd28G3chlEeR_6b_6bzxLxVKQbEb4eyRfJ0z8cb1zZCP0LNHT3ykI5x/s1600/4269042399_6508a361d5_m.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3CGTe0JUtDompIC-Euan6BTwOOr5BOunDcLybDzLswTUX8-Wr0YqwwnJBIb-soc5NL6DdtqsBFsL_fYv2lUGoDd28G3chlEeR_6b_6bzxLxVKQbEb4eyRfJ0z8cb1zZCP0LNHT3ykI5x/s320/4269042399_6508a361d5_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484072064062880322" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"><div class="entrybody"><p>She still remembers<br />how beautiful he was<br />when he walked in that mornin’<br />ordered coffee, lit a cigarette<br />it was the Cherokee Indian in him -<br />the high cheekbones,<br />perfect olive skin,<br />coal eyes.</p><p>She was a single mama<br />with a handicapped toddler<br />and a desperate story.<br />Tryin' to pay the rent<br />by gettin' orders right<br />and prayin' for a tip<br />from old bastards bitter<br />about love, life and money.</p><p>Rose.<br />Her mama had named her<br />after his favorite flower.<br />His Mama had been brutal.<br />After sleepin' in cars at 14,<br />bein’ beaten by whatever<br />man Mama loved that week<br />and givin' up on ever findin’ softness from a woman -<br />Rose’s devotion to her less than perfect child<br />moved things in him that he didn’t know were there.</p><p>And god almighty, she could cook collard greens and cornbread<br />like none he had ever known.</p><p>He loved her baby. Paid all the bills. Worked hard.<br />Made the baby his own. She never knew no other Daddy.<br />Rose was grateful.<br /><em>Then</em> the love settled down,<br />and his memories riled up.<br />Alcohol. Weed. Nights away.<br />He blamed all the ‘Jezebels’<br />on the Devil, instead of just sayin’<br />he was a son of a bitch.<br />Rose looked the other way.<br />Grew thorny. Lost her sweet scent. Withered.<br /></p><p>What’s a Mama to do?<br />She’s old now.<br />Collard greens and cornbread cookin’<br />won’t pay the rent, take care of her handicapped woman<br />or buy a week’s worth of cigarettes.</p><p>Love – always a compromise.</p></div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-58477495507212037912010-06-16T07:45:00.004-04:002010-06-18T07:18:04.726-04:00lunch<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIRGKZAS7Gsmg9hdlc5JISFaemlY-QjqX15POq1QooSBBvWggAH_weudDEQt7MusBwLFYcdhQOFC-lk4L0qzeblcEY_7MKHEAhbxNbdPLhepmoBtvAGx12IShuek_vf4CkikdZayY45LG/s1600/3738026651_0d3d8a578d_m.jpg"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 211px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483336398784736546" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIRGKZAS7Gsmg9hdlc5JISFaemlY-QjqX15POq1QooSBBvWggAH_weudDEQt7MusBwLFYcdhQOFC-lk4L0qzeblcEY_7MKHEAhbxNbdPLhepmoBtvAGx12IShuek_vf4CkikdZayY45LG/s320/3738026651_0d3d8a578d_m.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><div class="entrybody"><p>He wasn’t an alcoholic.<br />Alcoholism was for the weak.<br />He was just a Southern boy<br />that liked cold beer-<br />enough to take it with him<br />everywhere he went.</p><p>Best friends<br />since they were 11,<br />she didn’t feel the need to argue<br />about it or make any points.<br /></p><p>Quite honestly, she was proud<br />that alcohol was the <span style="font-style: italic;">only </span>salve<br />he'd chosen to soothe<br />all those wounds.</p><p> They hadn't met<br />when his Mama died-<br />but he told her about reading Mama stories in their old oak bed<br />while she battled the demons of cancer.<br />When she was gone, he didn’t cry.<br />His Mama had cried plenty enough for the both<br />of them, realizing the monster<br />she was leaving 'em with.</p><p>Time goes on and<br />a boy becomes a man.<br />Years of friendship<br />finally reach their fulfillment<br />in the smoldering heat of a slow<br />summer afternoon.<br /></p><p>It only makes them softer.<br />Answers all the questions<br />that neither had the courage to ask.</p><p>But he loves cold beer.<br />She wants steadiness for her children.<br />Today she sat<br />with her feet in his lap<br />his hands placed softly around her ankles.<br />He’s gonna be a Daddy.<br />The wedding is in three weeks.<br />They finish their lunch.<br />She asks about names, morning sickness, wedding aperitifs.</p><p>Hugs him bye, kisses his forehead, kisses each cheek-<br />Implores him to send<br />the new mother her warmest congratulations.<br />He whispers .....‘I will, I will’.</p></div></div><br /><div align="center"> </div></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-91150123636636707072010-06-15T20:09:00.008-04:002010-06-15T20:46:54.896-04:00A Grandma Now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5O8eDwVT0lPQqt8cW-GKpTylLyLv2rkjM7Nfjkuz8rYgNPDJbRQQmGOkqoZ50lQdm5gTgUimmYO_ow2IboD5olf_zaVTX3Usg6DuKy82Q2kugDeukcGuZelA0k2mM_mu7xwe1Enoq1r5/s1600/heneritta-lacks-husband-david-lacks-475x350.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-5O8eDwVT0lPQqt8cW-GKpTylLyLv2rkjM7Nfjkuz8rYgNPDJbRQQmGOkqoZ50lQdm5gTgUimmYO_ow2IboD5olf_zaVTX3Usg6DuKy82Q2kugDeukcGuZelA0k2mM_mu7xwe1Enoq1r5/s320/heneritta-lacks-husband-david-lacks-475x350.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483164226617521906" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Willie Bell Smith</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">always</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">reeked of </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Evan Williams</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">mixed warmly with</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Prince Albert tobacco</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">no matter the time of day</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">or occasion.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">She bore a </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">continuous, toothless smile</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">combined with drunken lanky hugs</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">ready for you, or anyone that looked her way,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">gave her half a chance for a smokey wet kiss. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Graceful, pretty, demure – she was not.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">No one would have ever guessed</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">she was the mother of </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">one so eloquent</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">or placid</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">in appearance as Mary.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Mary,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">with slanted eyes,</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">full red lips,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">ebony skin,</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">thick black hair</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">that touched</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">the top of her small round hips</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">- could have easily passed</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">for a Nubian Queen</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">had she been properly costumed.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Instead of gold bangles</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">and royal attire</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Mary was Willie Bell's daughter,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Charles’ widow.</span> <br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Charles who died at 35.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Cancer ate him from the inside out</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">after years of workin in the fertilizer plant.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Charles, her serene love.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">The father of her 7 children.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Of course, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">he was just a colored boy</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">in the rural South– </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">so the fertilizer plant</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">felt no need to pay a thing.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">That’s what happens to poor colored boys.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Mary</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">took her mourning, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">tossed it with her</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">determination</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">moved her 7 kids to the 'white side' of town.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">While Willie Bell drank whiskey</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">and </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">watched the kids play in the yard,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Mary earned a living.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">She cleaned white folks houses,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">drove a bus,</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">scrubbed toilets, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">made sure they missed no meals,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">all 7 had shoes for school, ribbons for their hair,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">the dishes were washed, the leaves were raked.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Mary loved and had been loved</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">all the ways she felt were needed.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">She knows one day, she’ll have her Charles back.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">She’ll tell him about puttin' the kids to bed,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">layin' in the front room </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">under the white chenille spread,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">wishin he was there to finish the braid in her long side plait.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">She'll put her hand on his thigh and </span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">tell him how, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">finally, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">she was the one</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">that got to sit under the magnolia</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">and see their grandkids play.</span> <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Watchin the sky, wishin for him.</span><br /></div>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223511267840101115.post-56950647422264068932010-06-11T21:04:00.004-04:002010-06-11T21:18:38.268-04:00BP's Other Side<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16A2BKKp79hYu-MCRtkrCN3_3yXt9QFZju5QgGmxAUw0BzGfVeqDySdLGXglpUpRzXY6twew8rwRBykYJYab-vIIt8ykRniGfPtNogbEdRknpeAKTvJ6_ZpooE-9X5R5LThWYjt48IOsF/s1600/1036242pw150.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16A2BKKp79hYu-MCRtkrCN3_3yXt9QFZju5QgGmxAUw0BzGfVeqDySdLGXglpUpRzXY6twew8rwRBykYJYab-vIIt8ykRniGfPtNogbEdRknpeAKTvJ6_ZpooE-9X5R5LThWYjt48IOsF/s320/1036242pw150.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481688113113910962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">He leaned forward</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">his years worth of belly pressin’</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">into the Regular Unleaded pump</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">stroked his handlebar mustache</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">and stared east</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">This was the direction</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">of the rising sun,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">the nearest shore,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">and</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Thelma Ann Parrish’s</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">small pink house with</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">the big front porch</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">covered in perfect</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">lantana, ceramic frogs,butterflies</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">and old cane rockers</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Had she still been alive</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">his mama wouldn’t have approved.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Thelma Ann wasn’t a potato salad, Presbyterian</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"> kinda woman.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">The fellas at the station</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">woulda chided him had they known</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">he prayed each morning her old Ford</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">needed refilling that day.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">She was a woman with ‘a history’</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">A scar from far off places.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">He was a man steady</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">as the acres of iron fence</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">round his farm down on Hwy 122</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">He liked the gap in her front teeth</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">the way she</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">knew all sorts of interesting facts</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">about Bob Barker</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">and</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">how her turquoise bangles jangled</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">when she wrote the check.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">He wanted to show her the steadiness of a pension,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">a lighter shade of pink,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">dances in the pasture,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">maybe a new Chevrolet and</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">introduce her to Pat Sajak.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">After 64 years of aloneness he stroked his chin</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">and wondered if this was how lovin’ began....</span>A Wide Front Porchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332912153931457075noreply@blogger.com0