globalnook

Mother's day

(The following short story is a reprint from Globalnook's Mother's Day edition of last year. It was written to honor mothers throughout the world on their special day.)

                                                               **************

        Robert Allman, dressed in his best Sunday suit, sat quietly in the front seat of the family car while his wife drove.

    “Now Bob, I’m going to drop you off at the corner,” the wife instructed. “Go to Waldrop's Drugs and get three roses…Two red and one white.”

      “Yes, dear,” Robert replied.

      “What’s the difference, mama?” little Johnny asked from the back seat.

    “On Mother’s Day, you wear a red rose to church if your mother is alive,” the wife continued. “If your mother is dead, you wear a white one…. You and I will wear red. Your father will wear white.”

       “Oh,” little Johnny replied thoughtfully.

       The car stopped at the corner down from the drug store.

       Robert started to get out.

       “Dad!” little Johnny said. “Get me some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon. OK?”

       The child’s father nodded then started to get out again.

       “Dad!” the son called again.

       The father stopped again.

     “Don’t let her tell you she doesn’t have any lemon,” the son said. ”I was in there Friday morning. The lemons are in the front corner of the big candy case.”

       “Ok.” the father said.

       Robert started to get out again.

       “Bob!” the wife summoned.

       The husband stopped again.

       “Tell Alma I said “Hi!”

       The husband nodded and started to get out again.

       “Don’t forget!” Johnny called from the back seat. “Two sour grape and three lemon… OK?”

      “Ok. Ok.” The father said. “Can I get out now?”

    “Yeah… Get out! Go on!” the wife said impatiently, urging her husband out of car, “And hurry up. We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s Day.

      Robert got out of the car and slammed the door.

      Then, after watching the car move down the street, he turned and started walking the half-block to the drug store.

      “Good morning, Bob,” the clerk greeted as he walked in.

      “Morning, Alma,” Robert started, “I need three roses. Two reds and one white.”

      “Let me see what I have,” she said moving to the flower cooler. “The white is for you?”

      Robert nodded.

      “My mother is passed on too” the woman said. “I miss her so much.”

      He watched as the woman searched through the bunches of roses.

      “Yeah, I lost my mother nine years ago,” he replied sadly. “I’d give anything on this earth to see her again”.

      “I’m sorry,” the woman said finally, “But I’m out of whites.”

      He pondered for a second.

    “Well…” he sighed indecisively. “Give me a red. I’ve got to wear something…. And I want some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon.”

      The clerk gathered the jawbreakers and roses and handed them to her customer.

      “That’ll be $3.50” she said.

      Robert Allman paid the clerk.

      “Thanks, Alma,” he said.

    Outside on the street again, he looked at the three red roses. They were rich, fully-petaled flowers. For a moment, he wondered what his wife would think, then he started walking back down the street.

      “Robert!” a voice called nearby.

      He stopped and turned to the sound of the voice. Before him stood a small, elderly woman with a warm smile.

      “Oh my God!” he said, jumping back in fright and staring in disbelief.

      For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

      “Mother!? Mom?” he gasped finally, “Is that you??!!”

      “It’s me, Robert... your mother”, the woman replied quietly. “Stay calm now. I‘m just here for a little visit.”

      Robert Allman still couldn’t believe what he is seeing.

      “Mama, we buried you down at Fellowship Baptist nine years ago.

     “Well, I’m here now. And I’m talking to my son,” the woman said calmly, taking his arm. “Come on and walk with me a ways. I don’t have long.”

      For a moment, he hesitated. He still couldn’t believe his eyes.

      “Come on!” the woman said, tugging on his arm. “Don’t be afraid. I AM your mother.”

      For a brief moment, he burst out in giddy laughter. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped.

      “I can’t believe it mom,” he said. “I just can’t believe it,” he said again. “Oh, God! I’m so glad to see you.”

      “It’s good to see you too,” she said with a loving smile. “Now come on and walk with me."

    Calmer now, forty-two-year-old Robert Allman, holding the three roses and the sack of jawbreakers, started walking down the street with the elderly woman holding his arm.

      “How you been doing?” she asked. “How’s little Johnny and Clara. I’ll bet Johnny is a big boy now.”

    “He’s 12.” Robert replied. “He wants everything he sees. When I growing up, I was lucky to get one jawbreaker. He has to have five, two sour grape and three lemon, no less.”

      “Yeah, that’s the way you were when you were his age. I remember how you worked cutting lawns all summer to get that catcher’s mitt when you were his age.”

      He looked at the woman and smiled.

     “That glove was burned up in the old clubhouse we had down in the woods,” he laughed. "Me and Billy Herman had a built a fire in an old stove and went down to the creek. When we smelled the smoke, we went running back up the hill. I tried to save the mitt, but the clubhouse and the glove were already gone.”

     Robert laughed out loud at the memory.

     “I hadn’t thought about that for a long time,” he said.

     “And Clara? Are you and her getting along?”

   “Yeah,” he said finally. “We are doing okay, I guess. She’s just so bossy.  She orders me around like I’m a puppy dog. But she’s a good mother to our son, so I don’t say anything.”

     “How’s she doing with the diabetes?”

   “Oh, she’s fine,” he answered. “If she takes her insulin, she’s fine. We always keep orange juice in the fridge in case of emergencies.”

     “You look good, Robert,” the woman said. “You look healthy and happy with yourself."

     “Oh, I feel good, mama. I love my job at the plumbing supply. I’ve been doing it a while.”

      “Are you saving any of it?”

     “I’m trying, mama.  I’ve got a retirement plan at work, we own the house on Chestnut Street now and Clara is talking about opening a savings bond account at her work.”

    “That’s good,” the woman said. “No matter what they say about money, in times of trouble it can’t be beat. Money gives you freedom. You don’t want to be broke in this day and age.”

       The two walked quietly.

       “When was the last time you were at the old house down at Oakwood?”

     “Oh, it’s been a while, mama," he replied. “You know the gas company bought that land six or seven years ago. Right where the old house used to stand there is a big tank that holds natural gas.

       “Me and your daddy built that house when you were five," she reminisced. "I remember my cousin Alvin came over to help us dig out of the tree roots so we could lay the foundation. I handed the concrete blocks up to your daddy one at a time," she said with a sigh. "I guess nothing stays the same...."

       The two walked quietly.

       “What about your sister Edna? Is she OK?”

       “I don’t know, mama,” he replied. “ I don't know where she is. After the estate was settled, she met up with a lawyer over in Reedsville and she said they were going up to St. Louis. I haven’t heard from her in five, maybe six years…. She never wrote… she never called....”

       The mother didn't reply at first.

       “I hope that wherever she is she’s happy, healthy and at peace with herself…,” she said finally.

       Robert Allman looked at his mother and said nothing.

       The two walked quietly. They were nearing the corner where he was due to meet his wife.

       “When was the last time you cleaned off your daddy’s grave?”

       He stopped and drew a deep breath.

    “Now mama, you know me and daddy never got along,” he said. “He never had time for me. He was always busy with work and his friends and everything else but me. You know that.”

      “That doesn’t matter,” he said. "He’s still your father.”

       He turned quickly to his mother.

    “Mom! You know that YOU were the one I loved. It was your arms I ran to. It was your bosom that I clung to. It was your voice that soothed me in  times on trouble. It was you I went to when I was hurting or hungry or needed support. It was YOUR arms where I felt warmth and comfort and support and love….”

       He stopped for a moment.

      The woman looked at her son sympathetically, saying nothing.

      “Then, as I grew older,” the son continued, “Other arms reached out to hold me…….”

      Suddenly, realizing what he had said, he stopped, overcome with emotion.

      He looked as his mother and his eyes began to fill with tears.

      They stopped walking. The mother turned to face her son.

    “It’s OK, Robert,” the mother said consolingly, reaching up and taking the much larger man into her small arms. "It's okay, baby.... It's okay, baby... it's ok."

      For a brief moment, the two hugged one another tightly.

      "Mama..... I've missed you so much...," he said, clinging tightly to the woman.

      "I know, baby.... I know," she replied.

      "I've always loved you so, so much" he said.

      "I know, baby," she said. "I know."

      Finally, the woman broke the embrace.

      “I’m so glad to see you, mom,” he said tearfully. “I've missed you so much.”

      “And I've missed you too....” she replied.

      Then she stepped back from her son.

     “Well...," she said. "I’ve got to go now.”

     “Go!!??...” he asked, a frantic tone in his voice. “Where are you going?”

     “Oh, I’ve got to go back...,” she said. “They only let me come for a visit.”

     “But…but…”, he said.

     “Bye, Robert…” the woman said sadly. “I love you.”

     Then, as Robert Allman watched helplessly, the woman walked quickly to the building at the corner and turned up the street.

      “Mom! Mother!” he yelled frantically. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled again.

       Desperately, he ran to the corner and looked up the street.

       The street was empty.

      He looked around frantically.  He looked across the street and back down the street toward the drug store. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Then,  holding the sack of candy in one hand and the roses in the other, he put his hands to his face and began sobbing. Then he fell to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably for several seconds. Then he suddenly realized where he was. Instantly, he stood up. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He straightened his tie. He looked down at his dress pants. There was gravel and dirt at the knees. He dusted them off hastily. He inspected the roses. They were fine. Then he took a deep breath and looked up the street. He could see the family car approaching.

      The car stopped. The son already had the car’s back window rolled down and was reaching for the candy. Robert handed the bag to his son then got into the car.

      “Oh, no!!” the wife said disappointedly upon seeing the roses.

       "Alma didn’t have any more whites...,” he explained.

      “So what are we going to do?” the wife asked.

      “We’ll just have to play like daddy’s mama is alive today,” little Johnny suggested.

      “What?!” the mother asked.

      “Let dad wear the red rose like his mother is alive….,” the son said. “What’s wrong with that?”

     “Well, it IS kind of tacky…” she said thoughtfully. “But since that’s all we’ve got…. Ok,” she said finally, “I guess the red will have to do….”

      In the back seat, Johnny opened the bag of jawbreakers.

      “Wow, Dad!” the son said excitedly, looking inside. “That’s exactly what I wanted. You did great!”

       “Yeah” the father said with a smile, “I DID do pretty good!”

       With that, the father looked back at his son and laughed out loud.

      “Ok, you two,” the woman said sternly, “Y’all hush up so I can drive… “We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s day.”

                                                                         ******

Mother's Day

(The following short story is a reprint from Globalnook's Mother's Day edition of last year. It was written to honor mothers throughout the world on their special day.)

                                                               **************

        Robert Allman, dressed in his best Sunday suit, sat quietly in the front seat of the family car while his wife drove.
    “Now Bob, I’m going to drop you off at the corner,” the wife instructed. “Go to Waldrop's Drugs and get three roses…Two red and one white.”
      “Yes, dear,” Robert replied.
      “What’s the difference, mama?” little Johnny asked from the back seat.
    “On Mother’s Day, you wear a red rose to church if your mother is alive,” the wife continued. “If your mother is dead, you wear a white one…. You and I will wear red. Your father will wear white.”
       “Oh,” little Johnny replied thoughtfully.
       The car stopped at the corner down from the drug store.
       Robert started to get out.
       “Dad!” little Johnny said. “Get me some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon. OK?”
       The child’s father nodded then started to get out again.
       “Dad!” the son called again.
       The father stopped again.
     “Don’t let her tell you she doesn’t have any lemon,” the son said. ”I was in there Friday morning. The lemons are in the front corner of the big candy case.”
       “Ok.” the father said.
       Robert started to get out again.
       “Bob!” the wife summoned.
       The husband stopped again.
       “Tell Alma I said “Hi!”
       The husband nodded and started to get out again.
       “Don’t forget!” Johnny called from the back seat. “Two sour grape and three lemon… OK?”
      “Ok. Ok.” The father said. “Can I get out now?”
    “Yeah… Get out! Go on!” the wife said impatiently, urging her husband out of car, “And hurry up. We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s Day.
      Robert got out of the car and slammed the door.
      Then, after watching the car move down the street, he turned and started walking the half-block to the drug store.
      “Good morning, Bob,” the clerk greeted.
      “Morning, Alma,” Robert started, “I need three roses. Two reds and one white.”
      “Let me see what I have,” she said moving to the flower cooler. “The white is for you?”
      Robert nodded.
      “My mother is passed on too” the woman said. “I miss her so much.”
      He watched as the woman searched through the bunches of roses.
      “Yeah, I lost my mother nine years ago,” he replied sadly. “I’d give anything on this earth to see her again”.
      “I’m sorry,” the woman said finally, “But I’m out of whites.”
      He pondered for a second.
    “Well…” he sighed indecisively. “Give me a red. I’ve got to wear something…. And I want some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon.”
      The clerk gathered the jawbreakers and roses and handed them to her customer.
      “That’ll be $3.50” she said.
      Robert Allman paid the clerk.
      “Thanks, Alma,” he said.
    Outside on the street again, he looked at the three red roses. They were rich, fully-petaled flowers. For a moment, he wondered what his wife would think, then he started walking back down the street.
      “Robert!” a voice called nearby.
      He stopped and turned to the sound of the voice. Before him stood a small, elderly woman with a warm smile.
      “Oh my God!” he said, jumping back in fright and staring in disbelief.
      For a moment, he couldn’t speak
      “Mother!? Mom?” he gasped finally, “Is that you??!!”
      “It’s me, Robert”, the woman replied quietly. “Stay calm now. I‘m just here for a little visit.”
      Robert Allman still couldn’t believe what he is seeing.
      “Mama, we buried you down at Fellowship Baptist nine years ago.
    “Well, I’m here now. And I’m talking to my son,” the woman said calmly, taking his arm. “Come on and walk with me a ways. I don’t have long.”
      For a moment, he hesitated. He still couldn’t believe his eyes.
      “Come on!” the woman said, tugging on his arm. “Don’t be afraid. I AM your mother.”
      For a brief moment, he burst out in giddy laughter. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped.
      “I can’t believe it mom,” he said. “I just can’t believe it,” he said again. “Oh, God! I’m so glad to see you.”
      “It’s good to see you too,” she said with a loving smile. “Now come on and walk with me."
    Calmer now, forty-two-year-old Robert Allman, holding the three roses and the sack of jawbreakers, started walking down the street with the elderly woman holding his arm.
      “How you been doing?” she asked. “How’s little Johnny and Clara. I’ll bet Johnny is a big boy now.”
    “He’s 12.” Robert replied. “He wants everything he sees. When I growing up, I was lucky to get one jawbreaker. He has to have five, two sour grape and three lemon, no less.”
      “Yeah, that’s the way you were when you were his age. I remember how you worked cutting lawns all summer to get that catcher’s mitt when you were his age.”
      He looked at the woman and smiled.
     “That glove was burned up in the old clubhouse we had down in the woods,” he laughed. "Me and Billy Herman had a built a fire in an old stove and went down to the creek. When we smelled the smoke, we went running back up the hill. I tried to save the mitt, but the clubhouse and the glove were already gone.”
     Robert laughed out loud at the memory.
     “I hadn’t thought about that for a long time,” he said.
     “And Clara? Are you and her getting along?”
   “Yeah,” he said finally. “We are doing okay, I guess. She’s just so bossy.  She orders me around like I’m a puppy dog. But she’s a good mother to our son, so I don’t say anything.”
     “How’s she doing with the diabetes?”
   “Oh, she’s fine,” he answered. “If she takes her insulin, she’s fine. We always keep orange juice in the fridge in case of emergencies.”
     “You look good, Robert,” the woman said. “You look healthy and happy with yourself."
     “Oh, I feel good, mama. I love my job at the plumbing supply. I’ve been doing it a while.”
      “Are you saving any of it?”
     “I’m trying, mama.  I’ve got a retirement plan at work, we own the house on Chestnut Street now and Clara is talking about opening a savings bond account at her work.”
    “That’s good,” the woman said. “No matter what they say about money, in times of trouble it can’t be beat. Money gives you freedom. You don’t want to be broke in this day and age.”
       The two walked quietly.
       “When was the last time you were at the old house down at Oakwood?”
     “Oh, it’s been a while, mama," he replied. “You know the gas company bought that land six or seven years ago. Right where the old house used to stand there is a big tank that holds natural gas.
       “Me and your daddy built that house when you were five," she replied. "I remember my cousin Alvin came over to help us dig out of the tree roots so we could lay the foundation. I handed the concrete blocks up to your daddy one at a time," she said with a sigh. "I guess nothing stays the same...."
       The two walked quietly.
       “What about your sister Edna? Is she OK?”
       “I don’t know, mama,” he replied. “ I don't know where she is. After the estate was settled, she met up with a lawyer over in Reedsville and she said they were going up to St. Louis. I haven’t heard from her in five, maybe six years…. She never wrote… she never called....”
       The mother didn't reply at first.
       “I hope that wherever she is she’s happy, healthy and at peace with herself…,” she said finally.
       Robert Allman looked at his mother and said nothing.
       The two walked quietly. They were nearing the corner where he was due to meet his wife.
       “When was the last time you cleaned off your daddy’s grave?”
       He stopped and drew a deep breath.
    “Now mama, you know me and daddy never got along,” he said. “He never had time for me. He was always busy with work and his friends and everything else but me. You know that.”
      “That doesn’t matter,” he said. "He’s still your father.”
       He turned quickly to his mother.
    “Mom! You know that YOU were the one I loved. It was your arms I ran to. It was your bosom that I clung to. It was your voice that soothed me in  times on trouble. It was you I went to when I was hurting or hungry or needed support. It was YOUR arms where I felt warmth and comfort and support and love….”
       He stopped for a moment.
      The woman looked at her son sympathetically, saying nothing.
      “Then, as I grew older,” the son continued, “Other arms reached out to hold me…….”
      Suddenly, realizing what he had said, he stopped, overcome with emotion.
      He looked as his mother and his eyes began to fill with tears.
      They stopped walking. The mother turned to face her son.
    “It’s OK, Robert,” the mother said consolingly, reaching up and taking the much larger man into her small arms. "It's okay, baby.... It's okay, baby... it's ok."
      For a brief moment, the two hugged one another tightly.
      "Mama..... I've missed you so much...," he said, clinging tightly to the woman.
      "I know, baby.... I know," she replied.
      Finally, the son broke the embrace.
      “I’m so glad to see you, mom,” he said tearfully. “I love you so much.”
      “And I love you too....” she replied.
      Then she stepped back from her son.
      “Well...," she said. "I’ve got to go now.”
      “Go!!??...” he asked, a frantic tone in his voice. “Where are you going?”
      “Oh, I’ve got to go back...,” she said. “They only let me come for a visit.”
       “But…but…” he said….
       “Bye, Robert…” the woman said sadly. “I love you.”
     Then, as Robert Allman watched helplessly, the woman walked quickly to the building at the corner and turned up the street.
       “Mom! Mother!” he yelled frantically. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled again.
       Desperately, he ran to the corner and looked up the street.
       The street was empty.
     He looked around frantically. He looked across the street and back down the street toward the drug store. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Then,  holding the sack of candy in one hand and the roses in the other, he put his hands to his face and began sobbing. Then he fell to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably for several seconds. Then he suddenly realized where he was. Instantly, he stood up. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He straightened his tie. He looked down at his dress pants. There was gravel and dirt at the knees. He dusted them off hastily. He inspected the roses. They were fine. Then he took a deep breath and looked up the street. He could see the family car approaching.
      The car stopped. The son already had the car’s back window rolled down and was reaching for the candy. Robert handed the bag to his son then got into the car.
      “Oh, no!!” the wife said disappointedly upon seeing the roses.
       "Alma didn’t have any more whites...,” he explained.
      “So what are we going to do?” the wife asked.
      “We’ll just have to play like daddy’s mama is alive today,” little Johnny suggested.
      “What?!” the mother asked.
      “Let dad wear the red rose like his mother is alive….,” the son said. “What’s wrong with that?”
    “Well, it IS kind of tacky…” she said thoughtfully. “But since that’s all we’ve got…. Ok,” she said finally, “I guess the red will have to do….”
      In the back seat, Johnny opened the bag of jawbreakers.
      “Wow, Dad!” the son said excitedly, looking inside. “That’s exactly what I wanted. You did great!”
       “Yeah” the father said with a smile, “I DID do pretty good!”
       With that, the father looked back at his son and laughed out loud.
      “Ok, you two,” the woman said sternly, “Y’all hush up so I can drive… “We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s day.”

One Stupid Mistake

The following short story is a selection from my new book "Alabama Stories".  Copies available at alabamastories.com.

                                                                 **********

8:06 a.m.  Nov. 4, 1973:> Eighteen-year-old Robert James Worthington, high school football star, honor student and senior class president, turned over in bed and opened his eyes. For a moment, he stared straight up at the white tongue-and-groove ceiling of his bedroom and tried to wake up. The big game, he thought, the big game with Lanier is tonight. Got to get up and get started.

With that, he threw his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. As the fog of sleep slowly faded away, he reached for a small gray vial marked “High Energy Protein Supplements” on the bedside table. The team doctor had said they were good for building strong muscle fiber. Popping the cap, he shook four of the tablets into his hand, replaced the cap, then swallowed them down with one big, dry gulp. Moments later, he was in the bathroom shaving.

 

8:36 a.m.:> Shaved, showered and dressed for breakfast, Robert James Worthington--tall, handsome, muscular, a fine specimen of a young American male--strode down the stairs to the family dining room where he saw his father seated at the table, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Bobby,” the father greeted him happily. “The paper says Lanier’s star fullback may not play today. He’s got a pulled hamstring.”

“It’s not a hamstring,” the son replied. “It’s a groin injury. Our team doctor knows their team doctor.”

“If he plays, it could make a lot of difference.”

“Maybe,” the son answered, seating himself at the table. “He’s never played against a defensive line as fast and as strong as ours.”

The son looked over at his mother, who was standing in a bathrobe at the cookstove.

“Morning, Bobby,” the mother said.

“Morning, Mom. What’s for breakfast?”

“Steak and eggs with hash browns.

“I like my hash browns well done,” he said.

“I know, dear,” she said patiently, placing a cup of steaming hot coffee and fresh cream in front of him.

      “Belinda called earlier,” the mother continued. “She said that you should drop by sometime after
ten a.m.”

      “I’ve got to be at the stadium at two p.m. for pre-game practice,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.

“I promised her I’d tell you,” the mother pressed.

“Thanks, Mom!” the son replied.

“Also,” the mother added, “Jimmy called.  He said to tell you to bring the lucky chin strap.”

“Oh, yeah,” the son remembered. “It’s in the medicine chest in the downstairs bathroom. Will you get it for me?”

“Soon as I finish your breakfast,” the mother replied.

The son turned to his father.

“I’ll need the station wagon to go to practice,” he said.

“That’s fine, son,” the father said. “Now that you’re going to college, you’re going to need your own car,” he added, looking knowingly at this wife.

“Yeah,” Robert James Worthington said absently, taking another gulp of coffee. “And soon…”

“How do you see the big game tonight?” the father asked.

“We can beat ’em if we can get it all together. Their big fullback is our main concern right now.

“You’re gonna stomp ’em,” the father said confidently.

“I hope so.”

“Oh, you will,” the father said again. “You’re Bobby Worthington.”

With that, eighteen-year-old Robert James Worthington’s mother placed a huge platter, brimming with rib-eye steak, three scrambled eggs, well-cooked hash browns and a side order of protein-rich wheat toast in front of him. With no time to waste, Marshall County High’s class president, top student and star quarterback dove right in.

 

10:06 a.m.:> Enjoying the crisp late November weather, Robert James Worthington swayed lazily in the front porch swing with beautiful Belinda Wilson, his fiancee, class valedictorian and head cheerleader at Marshall County High. A tall, statuesque brunette, she and Bobby had been going steady since they were juniors and had been engaged for seven months.

        “After we graduate from Marshall,” she said wistfully, “I want to get married, but I don’t want to have any children until I get my degree.”

“That’s fine,” the star quarterback said. “We can live in the married dorms on campus.”

“After I get my degree and teach for a couple of years, then I want to have a child.”

“I thought you wanted two,” he injected.

“I do. A boy and a girl, but I want them to be spaced a few years apart.”

“Your dreams are already laid out, aren’t they?” he asked, almost making a statement.

“They sure are.”

“All of that will happen,” the star quarterback assured her. “Just the way you’ve planned it.”

“I can always count on you,” she said, looking at him lovingly.

He smiled.

“We’ll be so happy together,” Belinda said blissfully, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips, “but right now I got to get to practice.”

“Tonight’s going to be your big night,” she said.

“Not unless I can throw some big passes to Jimmy,” he said.

“You just wait,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “You’re Bobby Worthington.”

 

2:04 p.m.:> Driving the family station wagon, Robert James Worthington pulled into the stadium parking lot at Marshall County High School. He was late. Jumping out, he pulled an equipment bag out of the back seat and hurried along the concrete corridor to the dressing room. As he walked in, the team was seated in front of the coach on gym benches.

“Bobby!” Coach Tom Walters said, looking up. “Let’s go. We’ve got lots of work to do.”

With that, Robert James Worthington took a place in the front row among the seated players.

“Tonight, we’re going up against one of the best high school football teams I’ve ever seen,” the coach began. “They can run the football, they have a highly effective passing and kicking game. If we’re going to win tonight, we’ve got to be fast, we’ve got to be strong and we’ve got to be mean.”

Robert James Worthington listened intently to his coach. Also listening and seated in the front row beside him was Jimmy Hagan, the star quarterback’s best friend and the team’s star receiver. Since the day the two had entered Marshall County High as freshmen four years earlier, Bobby and Jimmy had become the best of friends. They took the same classes, dated together, knew the intimate details of each other’s personal lives and, when they were away from school, spent most of their time together.

As athletes, Bobby and Jimmy were perfect complements. During the 1973 Marshall High baseball season, Bobby had been the star pitcher and Jimmy the catcher and the team won second place in the state finals. On the school’s basketball team, Jimmy, who was slightly taller, played center and Bobby played forward. Together, they had led Marshall High to the district basketball championships. But their greatest match-up was as a quarterback and pass receiver. In three years, Bobby and Jimmy had rewritten all the standing records for quarterbacks and receivers in the school’s history. During the 1973 season alone, they had connected for a remarkable 34 touchdowns, which broke the old record of 32 set way back in 1946.

The coach was finishing his speech.

“Okay, men, meeting’s over.” the coach barked. “Let’s get out there and start hitting.”

As the meeting broke up, the coach turned to his star quarterback and receiver.

“Bobby! Jimmy!” he called.

Robert James Worthington and his best friend turned to their coach.

“You guys got your pass patterns down?”

“We’re real close,” Bobby said.

“Close ain’t good enough,” the coach said crisply. “We can’t win unless you guys can pull off some big pass plays.”

“We know, Coach,” Bobby said.

The coach looked at his star players.

“Okay,” he said. “Jimmy, you go on out and start warming up. Me and Bobby’s got to look at some game film, then we’ll be out.”

 

2:38 p.m.:> Robert James Worthington and his coach, sitting in the film booth, watched the small movie screen as the flickering images of football players danced across it.

“Now you can see how that big guard is coming in from the left side of the line,” the coach explained, pointing to the screen. “If you have to scramble, scramble right. That way, you’ll be behind the strong side of our line.”

Robert James Worthington nodded with understanding.

“It’s the little things that win football games,” the coach said.

They turned back to the screen and watched for several more minutes.

“Now you see right here,” the coach said again, pointing to the screen, “Jimmy is running a post pattern and you were looking for a slant.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed.

“If the defender had been three yards closer, he could have intercepted the pass. That’s why you and Jimmy have got to have the pass patterns down. I mean down perfectly with no margin for error.  We can’t afford any stupid mistakes.”

The star quarterback nodded.

“One stupid mistake, just one… can cost us the whole game,” the coach emphasized. “It’s the same in life.  A whole lifetime can be destroyed in one moment of stupidity.”

 

4:38 p.m.:> Robert James Worthington, suited up at quarterback, was on the practice field scrimmaging with the Marshall High offensive team. Nearby, Coach Walters and a bevy of assistant coaches watched intently.

Over the past hour, Bobby had put the team through a series of the team’s basic running plays. Now they were going through the pass plays.

“Give me a short slant pass over the middle,” the coach barked.

The offensive and defensive teams went into a three-point stance.

“Hut! Hut!” Bobby barked to the center. At the snap, Bobby took the football and backed up into the pocket, then watched as Jimmy raced through the line of defending backs. At the precise moment, Bobby released the football with an almost playful flipping motion and the football plopped into Jimmy’s outstretched hands like pure magic.

“Good work!” the coach, clapping his hands, shouted from the sidelines. “If you two can complete pass plays like that tonight, we’ll kick their butts.”

“Okay,” the coach continued, stepping forward and motioning for the players to gather around him. As instructed, the players sidled up and formed a circle around their coach.

“I think we’re ready,” he said, glancing through the crowd. His eyes stopped on his star quarterback.

“What about the trick two-point play?”

“We’ve been working on it, Coach,” Bobby said.

“Working on it ain’t good enough,” the coach said crisply. “I want you guys to spend the next hour running it over and over until you get it down. Okay?”

Bobby and Jimmy nodded obediently.

“We’re going to win tonight,” the coach continued. “That means we’ve got to put it all together.”

He stopped again.

       “Game time is 7 p.m. Anybody that’s not in the dressing room and suited up at 6:00will be in big trouble with me.  Got that?!”

“Yes, sir!” the team shouted in unison.

“That’s all!” the coach barked.

With that, Bobby, Jimmy and the other players watched as their coach, clipboard still in hand, turned and walked back to the dressing room.

“We got a job to do tonight,” Bobby said, turning to Jimmy.

“I know” his best friend said.

      "Let's work on the secret two-point play.

      “Okay,” Jimmy said. “Where’s the lucky chin strap?”

      The star quarterback reached in his hip pocket and withdrew the worn chin strap.

      “Great!” Jimmy said happily, taking the piece of leather and rubbing it across his chin. “We’re gonna kick their butts.”

       For the past two years, Bobby and Jimmy had had a superstition about the chin straps they had worn during the 1971 state championship game. In that game, nobody dreamed that Marshall High had a chance against a mighty Phillips High team from Birmingham. But Bobby, a sophomore who took over in the third quarter when the first-string quarterback was injured, had thrown a miracle pass to Jimmy in the closing seconds to win the game. Jimmy said the ball “hit my chin strap and just bounced into my hands.” The now-famous pass play had made stars out of both players and they had saved the “lucky” chin straps. Since then, the two had made it a point to wear the “lucky” chin straps during all their big games.

 

7:08 p.m.:> Robert James Worthington, football helmet in hand, watched silently as the stars and stripes were raised and the assembled crowd of football fans sang the national anthem. Around him, the Marshall County High School stadium was filled to capacity. On one side, some 15,000 delirious Marshall High fans were clamoring to see their team give cross-state rival Lanier High a sound thrashing. On the opposite side, the stands were packed with screaming Lanier fans who carried signs and shouted victory chants in support of their team. Finally, with the words “land of the free and home of the brave,” a massive yell erupted from the stands and the two teams took the field to do battle.

       Lanier High won the coin toss and elected to receive. After two short gains and a failed pass attempt, however, they had to punt. Robert James Worthington and the Marshall high offensive team took the field. But the Lanier defense was tough. After two short passes and a busted running play, Marshall High had to punt. The big game was now underway.

 

8:42 p.m.:> At halftime, with Lanier High ahead 14-7, the Marshall coach said the team had done well to establish a running game, but the Bobby-Jimmy combination hadn’t clicked yet.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, turning to his star quarterback and receiver.

“I can’t get open,” Jimmy said. “Their guy on defense is really fast.”

“I told you he’s fast,” the coach emphasized. “In their game with Jefferson, their quarterback only completed four passes. That same defender was with their receiver step-for-step on every play.”

“We could send out other eligible receivers,” the star quarterback suggested.

“No,” the coach said thoughtfully. “He’s got to have a weakness of some kind. Either that or we’ve got to find some way to throw him off his game.”

“We haven’t found it yet,” Bobby said.

“Be watching!” the coach said.

 

9:55 p.m.:> With 2:12 left in the fourth quarter and Lanier ahead 21-14, Marshall High took over on downs on their own 37-yard line. Marshall was in a do-or-die situation. In the huddle on first down, Robert James Worthington called for a short slant pass.

“Jimmy, when you run the pattern, go straight out, then suddenly veer sideways, then go back in a straight line.” the quarterback said.

        “We’ve never run that pattern in practice,” Jimmyreplied.

“I know,” the quarterback said. “Let’s see what the defender does.”

At the snap, Jimmy ran the pattern exactly as the quarterback had suggested. Immediately, when Jimmy went back to the straight route, he broke free and easily caught the pass for a 15-yard gain.

“That’s his weakness,” Jimmy said back in the huddle. “He does fine going from a straight line to a lateral motion, but he’s all thumbs when it comes to moving from a lateral move back to a straight line.”

“I know! I know!” Robert James Worthington said, smiling happily. “See the gold streamers hanging down on the goal posts?”

Jimmy Hagan looked away from the huddle toward the opposite end of the field.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Line up directly in front on the streamers and imagine a straight line between you and them.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said, peering down the field.

“Off the line and about ten yards out, veer off to the right, then come back and run in the same straight line toward the streamers.”

“Got it!” Jimmy said.

“I’ll hit you about the ten,” Bobby said, rubbing his lucky chin strap.

With that, the Marshall High team broke huddle. As Jimmy broke from the line of scrimmage, the Lanier defender was keeping stride with him. Even as he veered off, the defender stayed right at his side. But once Jimmy fell back into the straight line pattern, the confused defender lost several steps and Jimmy broke free and clear.

Robert James Worthington could see that his tight end was racing ahead of the defender. Standing confidently in the pocket, he cocked his arm and threw the football. More than 30,000 pairs of eyes followed the football as it arched high above the stadium. Spiraling through the crisp November night air, the football traveled to the exact spot it had been intended at the ten yard line. As Jimmy Hagan caught the football and raced into the end zone, the Marshall High fans went wild with delirious joy.

Raising his arms happily in a triumphant salute, Robert James Worthington trotted back to the sidelines.

“Great work!” the coach said happily. “Now,” he said, “get back in there! Run the trick play!”

As the Marshall High team trotted back on the field for the extra point, the score was 21-20 in favor of  Lanier.

      As the   Marshall team lined up for the extra point,  it was obvious to the Lanier defenders that Marshall was going for two points and the win rather than one point and the tie. They knew something fishy was about to happen, but they didn’t know just what. The obvious two-point play was for the quarterback to take the snap and pass the football, probably to Jimmy Hagan. They were 99 percent sure it would be some kind of pass.  At the snap, the ball was centered to Jimmy Hagan. As the Lanier defenders looked on in confused horror, Jimmy slipped into the pocket and Bobby went out for the pass. Five seconds later, Bobby Worthington hauled in the 14-yard pass and stepped into the end zone. This was the very last time the Lanier defenders had expected. All of them were convinced the ball would be centered to the quarterback who would then pass it, probably to Jimmy. It was a complete reversal of roles for the star quarterback and his favorite receiver and it took the Lanier defense totally by surprise. It was the old Alabama “Flea-Flicker” play and it worked to perfection. As the confused Lanier defenders threw up their hands in disgust, the game clock ticked off the last few seconds and the final scoreboard read Marshall High 22, Lanier High 21.

 

10:30 p.m.:> After the big game, pandemonium reigned supreme in the Marshall High dressing room and it was filled to capacity with celebrating fans, school alumni, well-wishers, the players’ families and friends and, of course, the press.

“You’re gonna be one of the greatest,” sportswriter William Vernon Johnson said, hunkering down in front of star quarterback Robert James Worthington as he removed his shoulder pads. “You got the arm, the eye, the quick release, the timing… everything you need to be a great quarterback… You could be another Joe Namath.”

Bobby Worthington inhaled thoughtfully.

“Nothing on earth would make me happier,” he said. “I love the game of football.”

       “How does it feel to have a full scholarship to the University of Alabama," 32-year-old Billy Johnson asked.

       “I always wanted to play for Bear Bryant,” the quarterback said. “To play for the Bear and be a star quarterback at  Alabama is the greatest dream I ever had…”

“And you got a 4.0 grade point average to go with it,” Billy Johnson noted. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

The star quarterback laughed self-consciously.

“I’ve been lucky,” he said, reaching down and touching the chin strap on his helmet.

“What’ll it be after college?”

“Either the pros or med school,” the quarterback said. “If I play in the pros, I’d like to play for

Dallas.”

“One last question,” sportswriter Johnson ventured.

“What’s that?”

“How does it feel to have the world on a string?”

Robert James Worthington paused to consider the question.

“Pretty good!” he said, with a slow, confident smile. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: “No, not just pretty good; it’s great!”

 

11:03 p.m.:> Robert James Worthington, dressed in street clothes, was walking from the football dressing room to the stadium parking lot with his girlfriend Belinda and Jimmy Hagan when he saw place-kicker Wayne Thompson hurrying to his car.

        “Wayne!” Bobby called.

“Hey!” the place-kicker answered.

“My folks are having a little victory celebration over at my house,” Bobby said. “You’re invited.”

      Wayne hesitated.

“No, I better not,” he said apologetically. “My girlfriend’s mother is in the hospital. I promised I’d be there after the game.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, “Maybe some other time.”

       “Thanks anyway,” Wayne said. “See you later.”

With that, Wayne Thompson, having made possibly one of the most important decisions of his life, waved goodbye to Robert James Worthington and continued walking to his car.

 

12:04 a.m.:> All the people who were important in Robert James Worthington’s life--his parents, his girlfriend, Belinda, his best friend, Jimmy Hagan, and his head coach Bill Walters--were all present at his parents’ celebration.

For the event, his father had bought four magnums of champagne and his mother had prepared cheese snacks, green onion chips and dip and finger sandwiches.

For Robert James Worthington’s father, the night was a cause for true celebration so he wasted no time opening the champagne. After several toasts and a round of glorifying comments, Bobby had four or five glasses of champagne.

“Did Marshall High play a great game or what?” Bobby’s father asked the crowd jubilantly. A whoop of joy and elation erupted from the crowd. Finally, after the celebratory mood had died down, the father asked for quiet.

“I got something I want to say,” he said. “All of you know how proud I am of my son. He has been the greatest son I could ever have asked for.”

There was a round of approving nods and proud smiles from the crowd.

“What I’m about to do is really just a little thing, but I wanted my son to know how proud I am of him,” the father said.

With that, he motioned for the crowd to come out to the garage. Outside, he unlocked the garage door and opened it. The assembled crowd gave a collective gasp of envy as the door raised and revealed a brand spanking new 1974 Ford Custom Sports Sedan.

“Wow!” Robert James Worthington said, his eyes glistening with delight. “This is great. Just great!”

With that, he opened the door to his new car. “Wow! Leather seats. Cassette deck and factory air. Sports package. Oh, dad, this is too much!” he said joyfully.

“Nothing is too good for my son,” the father said.

With that, the son hugged his father. The older man beamed with delight. Tears of joy formed in the father’s eyes as he held his son tightly for a fleeting moment. Finally, the father broke the embrace and kissed his son on the cheek. Then, beaming proudly, the father reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys.

“Go ahead!” he said. “She’s all yours.”

“Jimmy!” Robert James Worthington said, taking the keys. “Come on, let’s take her for a spin.”

“Ready when you are!” Jimmy said.

“Are you okay to drive after that champagne?” the coach asked.

“Oh, sure,” his star quarterback replied confidently.

With that, Robert James Worthington got inside the car and started the engine. For a moment, he listened as the mighty engine roared.

“That’s music to my ears,” the star quarterback beamed as his best friend got in and slammed the door on the passenger side.

“We’ll be back,” he said.

“Be careful!” Belinda cautioned, as the star quarterback backed the car out of the garage.

“We will,” her husband-to-be replied with a confident smile.

 

12:38 a.m.:> Robert James Worthington pulled the shiny new sports car off the residential side street and on to the main highway.

“It’s really a nice machine,” Jimmy commented, opening the passenger side window to let in the crisp November night.

“Yeah,” the star quarterback agreed happily. “It’s a V-8. Let’s see what this thing will do.”

Jimmy looked at the speedometer.

“She’ll do up to 140,” he noted.

“And probably more,” the star quarterback added. With that, he rammed the accelerator pedal to the floorboard and the speedometer began to climb.

“The straight-away over the lake is just around this curve,” Robert James Worthington said. “I’ll open her up then.”

Within seconds, the sports car was whizzing along the rural highway at 95 miles an hour as both young men watched the speedometer climb.

At 100 miles an hour, Jimmy, a worried look on his face, was no longer enjoying the ride.

“Bobby,” he said, “we’re going too fast. You better slow this thing down.”

“Nah,” the star quarterback said confidently. “These things are made to go fast.”

With that, he pushed the accelerator all the way to the floorboard and the speedometer shot up to 105 miles per hour. As the car rounded the curve and approached the bridge to the lake, Robert James Worthington suddenly saw two concrete blocks that had fallen off a truck in the middle of the highway. At 110 miles an hour, Robert James Worthington swerved very slightly and missed the first block, but the four glasses of champagne had dulled his reflexes just enough that it was too late to avoid the second one.

“Look out!!” Jimmy screamed, genuine fear in his voice.

For a brief instant, Robert James Worthington tried to brake, but it was too late. The car’s right front tire hit the second concrete block dead-on and, since it was traveling at 110 miles an hour, the car flew up into the air and flipped over the bridge railing. As the car tumbled through the air, Robert James Worthington watched helplessly as his best friend was thrown out the open passenger window and he could feel himself being tossed around willy-nilly inside the vehicle. As the car slammed on to the surface of the water right side up, the star quarterback instantly regained his senses. Water was pouring through the open passenger’s window and that side of the car was rapidly sinking.

Robert James Worthington knew he had to act quickly. Wasting no time, he tried to force open the driver’s side door, but it was stuck. With all his might, he pushed against the door again and again but it was futile. The car was almost filled with water. Quickly, he jumped to the passenger side of the car and tried to pull himself through the open passenger window, but the onslaught of water pouring into the car was too much for him. Twice, three times, four times he tried, but with each new effort, the force of the water rushing into the car pushed him back. He had one last chance. Quickly, with his head underwater and holding his breath, he swung himself into the rear seat and, with desperate fists, he beat on the car’s cracked rear window, but he was helpless to break the glass. He was trapped. The interior of car was totally filled with water now and he had no breath left. As his oxygen-starved body thrashed helplessly in the last throes of life, he thought to himself: “This can’t be happening to me. I’m Bobby Worthington.”

 

1:14 a.m. Nov. 5, 1973:> Once filled with water, the shiny new 1974 Ford Custom Sports Sedan sank slowly and quietly to the bottom of the lake. Inside, the star quarterback’s bloated body--eyes still wide open, lungs and body cavities completely filled with water--floated aimlessly within the murky, liquid darkness. Eighteen-year-old Robert James Worthington, high school football star, honor student, class president, lover boy and a young man who had “the world by a string” was dead.

                                                                            ******

Mother's Day

        Robert Allman, dressed in his best Sunday suit, sat quietly in the front seat of the family car while his wife drove.
      “Now Bob, I’m going to drop you off at the corner,” the wife instructed. “Go to Waldrop's  Drugs and get three roses…Two red and one white.”
      “Yes, dear,” Robert replied.
      “What’s the difference?” little Johnny asked from the back seat.
      “On Mother’s day, you wear a red rose to church if your mother is alive,” the wife continued. “If your mother is dead, you wear a white one…. You and I will wear red. Your father will wear white.”
       “Oh,” little Johnny replied thoughtfully.
       The car stopped at the corner down from the drug store.
       Robert started to get out.
       “Dad!” little Johnny said. “Get me some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon. OK?”
       The child’s father nodded then started to get out again.
       “Dad!” the son called again.
       The father stopped again.
       “Don’t let her tell you she doesn’t have any lemon,” the son said. ”I was in there Friday morning. The lemons are in the front corner of the big candy case.”
       “Ok.” the father said.
       Robert started to get out again.
       “Bob!” the wife summoned.
       The husband stopped again.
       “Tell Alma I said “Hi!”
       The husband nodded and started to get out again.
       “Don’t forget!” Johnny called from the back seat. “Two sour grape and three lemon… OK?”
      “Ok. Ok.” The father said. “Can I get out now?”
      “Yeah… Get out! Go on!” the wife said impatiently, urging her husband out of car, “And hurry up. We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s Day.
      Robert got out of the car and slammed the door.
      Then, after watching the car move down the street, he turned and started walking the half-block to the drug store.
      “Good morning, Bob,” the clerk greeted.
      “Morning,  Alma,” Robert started, “I need three roses. Two reds and one white.”
      “Let me see what I have,” she said moving to the flower cooler. “The white is for you?”
      Robert nodded.
      “My mother is passed on too” the woman said. “I miss her so much.”
      He watched as the woman searched through the bunches of roses.
      “Yeah, I lost my mother nine years ago,” he replied sadly. “I’ve give anything to see her again”.
      “I’m sorry,” the woman said finally, “But I’m out of whites.”
      He pondered for a second.
      “Well…” he sighed indecisively. “Give me a red. I’ve got to wear something…. And I want some jawbreakers. Two sour grape and three lemon.”
      The clerk gathered the jawbreakers and roses and handed them to her customer.
      “That’ll be $3.50” she said.
      Robert Allman paid the clerk.
      “Thanks, Alma,” he said.
      Outside on the street again, he looked at the three red roses. They were rich, fully-petalled flowers. For a moment, he wondered what his wife would think, then he started walking back down the street.
      “Robert!” a voice called nearby.
      He stopped and turned to the sound of the voice. Before him stood a small, elderly woman with a warm smile.
      “Oh my God!” he said, jumping back in fright and staring in disbelief.
      For a moment, he couldn’t speak
      “Mother!? Mom?” he gasped finally, “Is that you??!!”
      “It’s me, Robert”, the woman replied quietly. “Just stay calm now. I‘m here for a little visit.”
      Robert Allman still couldn’t believe what he is seeing.
      “Mama, we buried you down at Fellowship Baptist nine years ago.
      “Well, I’m here now. And I’m talking to my son,” the woman said calmly, taking his arm. “Come on and walk with me a ways. I don’t have long.”
      For a moment, he hesitated. He still couldn’t believe his eyes.
      “Come on!” the woman said, tugging on his arm. “Don’t be afraid. I AM your mother.”
      For a brief moment, he burst out in giddy laughter. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped.
      “I can’t believe it mom,” he said. “I just can’t believe it,” he said again. “Oh, God! I’m so glad to see you.”
      “It’s good to see you too,” she said with a loving smile. “Now come on and walk with me."
      Calmer now, forty-two-year-old Robert Allman, holding the three roses and the sack of jawbreakers, started walking down the street with the elderly woman holding his arm.
      “How you been doing?” she asked. “How’s little Johnny and Clara. I’ll bet Johnny is a big boy now.”
      “He’s 12.” Robert replied. “He wants everything he sees. When I growing up, I was lucky to get one jawbreaker. He has to have five, two sour grape and one lemon, no less.”
      “Yeah, that’s the way you were when you were his age. I remember how you worked cutting lawns all summer to get that catcher’s mitt when you were his age.”
      He looked at the woman and smiled.
     “That glove was burned up in the old clubhouse we had down in the woods,” he laughed. "Me and Billy Herman had a built a fire in an old stove and went down to the creek. When we smelled the smoke, we went running back up the hill. I tried to save the mitt, but the clubhouse and the glove were already gone.”
     Robert laughed out loud at the memory.
     “I hadn’t thought about that for a long time,” he said.
     “And Clara? Are you and her getting along?”
     “Yeah,” he said finally. “We are doing okay, I guess. She’s just so bossy.  She orders me around like I’m a puppy dog. But she’s a good mother to our son, so I don’t say anything.”
     “How’s she doing with the diabetes?”
     “Oh, she’s fine,” he answered. “If she takes her insulin, she’s fine. We always keep orange juice in the fridge in case of emergencies.”
     “You look good, Robert,” the woman said. “You look healthy and happy with yourself."
     “Oh, I feel good, mama. I love my job at the plumbing supply. I’ve been doing it a while.”
      “Are you saving any of it?”
     “I’m trying, mama.  I’ve got a retirement plan at work, we own the house on Chestnut Street now and Clara is talking about opening a savings bond account at her work.”
      “That’s good,” the woman said. “No matter what they say about money, in times of trouble it can’t be beat. Money gives you freedom. You don’t want to be broke in this day and age.”
       The two walked quietly.
       “When was the last time you were at the old house down at Oakwood?”
       “Oh, it’s been a while, mama," he replied. “You know the gas company bought that land six or seven years ago. Right where the old house used to stand there is a big tank that holds natural gas.
       “Me and your daddy built that house when you were five," she replied. " I remember my cousin Alvin came over to help us dig out of the tree roots so we could lay the foundation. I handed the concrete blocks up to your daddy one at a time," she said with a sigh. " I guess nothing stays the same...."
       The two walked quietly.
       “What about your sister Edna? Is she OK?”
       “I don’t know, mama,” he replied. “ I don't know where she is. After the estate was settled, she met up with a lawyer over in Reedsville and she said they were going up to St. Louis. I haven’t heard from her in five, maybe six years…. She never wrote… she never called....”
       The mother didn't reply at first.
       “I hope that wherever she is she’s happy healthy and at peace with herself…,” she said finally.
       Robert Allman looked at his mother and said nothing.
       The two walked quietly. They were nearing the corner where he was due to meet his wife.
       “When was the last time you cleaned off your daddy’s grave?”
       He stopped and drew a deep breath.
      “Now mama, you know me and daddy never got along,” he said. “He never had time for me. He was always busy with work and his friends. You know that.”
      “That doesn’t matter,” he said. "He’s still your father.”
       He turned quickly to his mother.
      “Mom! You know that YOU were the one I loved. It was your arms I ran to. It was your bosom that I clung to. It was your voice that soothed me. It was you I went to when I was hurting or hungry or needed support. It was YOUR arms where I felt warmth and comfort and love….”
       He stopped for a moment.
      The woman looked at her son sympathetically,  saying nothing.
      “Then, as I grew older,” the son continued, “Other arms reached out to hold me…….”
      Suddenly, realizing what he had said, he stopped, overcome with emotion.
      He looked as his mother and his eyes began to fill with tears.
      They stopped walking. The mother turned to face her son.
      “It’s OK, Robert,” the mother said consolingly, reaching up and taking the much larger man into her small arms. "It's okay, baby..."
      For a brief moment, the two hugged one another tightly.
      "Mama..... I've missed you so much...," he said, clinging tightly to the woman.
      "I know, baby.... I know," she replied.
      Finally, the son broke the embrace.
      “I’m so glad to see you, mom,” he said tearfully. “I love you so much.”
      “And I love you too....” she replied.
      Then she stepped back from her son.
      “Well...," she said. "I’ve got to go now.”
      “Go!!??...” he asked, a frantic tone in his voice. “Where are you going?”
      “Oh, I’ve got to go back...,” she said. “They only let me come for a visit.”
       “But…but…” he said….
       “Bye, Robert…” the woman said sadly. “I love you.”
       Then, as Robert Allman watched helplessly, the woman walked quickly to the building at the corner and turned up the street.
       “Mom! Mother!” he yelled frantically. “Mom! Mom!” he yelled again.
       Desperately, he ran to the corner and looked up the street.
       The street was empty.
       He looked around frantically. He looked across the street and back down the street toward the drug store. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Then,  holding the sack of candy in one hand and the roses in the other, he put his hands to his face and began sobbing. Then he fell to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably for several seconds. Then he suddenly realized where he was. Instantly, he stood up. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He straightened his tie. He looked down at his dress pants. There was gravel and dirt at the knees. He dusted them off hastily. He inspected the roses. They were fine. Then he took a deep breath and looked up the street. He could see the family car approaching.
      The car stopped. The son already had the car’s back window rolled down and was reaching for the candy. Robert handed the bag to his son then got into the car.
      “Oh, no!!” the wife said disappointedly upon seeing the roses.
       "Alma didn’t have any more whites...,” he explained.
      “So what are we going to do?” the wife asked.
      “We’ll just have to play like daddy’s mama is alive today,” little Johnny suggested.
      “What?!” the mother asked.
      “Let dad wear the red rose like his mother is alive….,” the son said. “What’s wrong with that?”
     “Well, it IS kind of tacky…” she said thoughtfully. “But since that’s all we’ve got…. Ok,” she said finally, “I guess the red will have to do….”
      In the back seat, Johnny opened the bag of jawbreakers.
      “Wow, Dad!” the son said excitedly, looking inside. “That’s exactly what I wanted. You did great!”
       “Yeah” the father said with a smile, “I DID do pretty good!”
       With that, the father looked back at his son and laughed out loud.
      “Ok, you two,” the woman said sternly, “Y’all hush up so I can drive… “We don’t want to be late for church on Mother’s day.”              

                                                                           ******

Prejudice

(The following is another selection from my recently published book "Alabama Stories".

       As a small child growing up in the hills of North Alabama, I didn’t actually meet a Negro face-to-face until I was five years old. Of course, I was aware of their existence from a distance. While shopping in the nearby town of Hamilton, Alabama, with my parents, I had seen black families browsing in the stores, walking the streets and riding around in cars. I had seen black men working in the chain gangs along the county roadways and I had heard my mother speak to my father about “colored town.”
       Also, I was keenly aware of Etta Mae Jackson, the young, talkative black woman who would sometimes come to help my mother in the fall when she was canning fruit. When Etta Mae came to our house, she and my mother always stayed on the back porch and in the kitchen, peeling and paring and packing, so I never actually spoke to the Negro woman on a personal basis. That’s why, when I did meet a Negro on a one-to-one, up-close social basis for the first time, it would be an experience I would always remember.
       One Saturday morning in late May of 1946, I was playing in the front yard at our home when I heard a vehicle on the road and turned to see an old rickety pickup truck pull into our driveway.
       A Negro man, lanky, muscular, blue-black in color and maybe 28 or 29, got out of the truck and walked toward me. I could see the man had black skin like the other “Negroes” I had seen, but this single characteristic held no special significance for my young eyes. In every other way, he seemed to fit the same general specifications of most whites I had known.
       He stopped about ten feet from me.
       “Hi,” I said. “My name is Billy.”
       He examined me for a moment.
       “Are you Mister Robert Johnson’s son?” he asked finally.
       “Yes, sir,” I answered. My father had taught me to always address older men as ‘sir.’
       For a moment, he looked at me inquisitively, almost amused. Then he asked: “Will you go tell yo’ daddy that Calvin Washington is here?”
       I studied him for a moment, then quickly turned and ran into the house.
       In the kitchen, my mother was cleaning up the breakfast dishes while my father was having his last few sips of morning coffee. My father looked up when I burst into the kitchen.          
       “There’s a man outside, daddy,” I said. “His name is Calvin.”
       My father got up from the table, coffee cup in hand, and peered out the window. Then he tossed down the last swallow of coffee, sat the cup on the table and turned to go outside. I ran after him.
       Outside, the black man was still standing in the same spot where he had talked to me. I noticed that my father didn’t shake hands with the man.
       “You Calvin Washington?” my father asked.
       “Yes sir.”
       “Mr. Wiley Gilbert over at the crossroads says you know how to dig a ditch.”
       “Yes sir.”
       “A straight one?”
       The Negro nodded.
       “And I got my own pick and shovels,” he added.
       My father peered over at the pickup. Then he looked at the black man again.
       “See that corner over there,” my father said, pointing toward the corner of the house.
       The black man peered toward the point my father was indicating.
       “I need a ditch for a water line from that corner,” my father said, indicating with his index finger, “to the barn over there. It’s about fifty feet.”
       Interested, the black man walked over and peered along the imaginary line between the corner of the house and the barn.
       “What about the rose bushes?” he asked.
       “Just dig ’em up and put them off to the side,” my father said.
       The black man studied the project for a moment.
       “Looks like about three hours work,” the Negro man said.
       “That’s about right,” my father said. “How much you charge?”
       “I usually get seventy-five cents a hour,” the black man said, almost embarrassed.
       My father looked at the man.
       “I’ll pay fifty,” my father said finally.
       There was a long pause.
       “That the best you can do?” the black man asked. “About everybody I know gets at least sixty cents an hour.”
       “Fifty is the most I’ll pay,” my father reiterated.
       The black man, emotionless, stepped over and sighted the line between the barn and the house again.
       “I’ll replant them rose bushes for you for sixty cents a hour,” the black man offered.
       My father shook his head slowly.
       “I’ll replant ’em wherever you want ’em,” the black man added, almost as an afterthought.
       “I’ll replant the rose bushes,” my father said emphatically. “All I need from you is to dig the ditch. Fifty cents an hour is my best offer.”
       The black man studied for another moment, looked at me, then back at my father. After a long pause, he inhaled resignedly.
       “All right, sir. I’ll get my tools,” he said, turning back to the truck.
       “Have you eat?” my father asked.
       The Negro stopped.
       “No sir.”
       “I’ll get you some breakfast,” my father said.
       “Thank you, Mister Johnson.”
       My father turned to go back into the house. I watched as the Negro man walked back to the truck, then I ran into the house after my father.
       Inside, my mother was still washing dishes.
       “Virginia,” my father called as he walked back into the kitchen. “You got some sausage biscuits and eggs left?”
       “I got some sausage and biscuits, but I’ll have to cook eggs,” she said.
       “Fix something for that boy out here,” my father ordered.
       My mother, wiping her wet hands on her apron, stepped away from the sink and peered out the window at the Negro man.
       “It’ll take a few minutes,” she said.
       My father went into the back room to put on his work clothes. I took a seat at the cleared table and watched as my mother put the cold sausage biscuits into the oven.
       “Mama, that man’s got black skin,” I said.
       “He’s a Negro, Billy,” my mother said matter-of-factly, breaking an egg into the skillet.    “Way back yonder, his people were slaves on the old plantations.”
       “Why is he black like that?” I asked.
       “’Cause God made him that way back in Africa. Just like He give you white skin, He give Negroes black skin.”
       “Oh,” I said, acting as if I understood.
       On the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, my mother always kept several chipped plates and some old fruit jars for outsiders to eat out of when they came to our house. There was a drifter named Mr. Robertson who passed through our little community from time to time. My mother said he was a ‘no-count’, but my father gave him odd jobs, let him sleep in the barn and fed him from our table. My mother always served Mr. Robertson’s food and drink in the eating utensils on the top shelf.
       I watched as my mother reached down one of the chipped plates and a fruit jar for the Negro’s food and drink. Then I watched as she dumped the eggs into the plate, neatly placed the warm sausage biscuits beside them and filled the fruit jar with steaming, hot coffee.
Seeing the food was prepared, I wanted to help.
       “I’ll tell him to come in and eat,” I said and started out.
      “William Vernon Johnson!” my mother yelled, raising her voice. “Get back here!”
      I stopped at the back door, not understanding.
       “I’m going to tell him his breakfast is ready,” I ventured.
       “You stay right where you are, young man,” she said firmly. “Yo’ daddy will handle this.”   
       “He’s got to come in to eat,” I said.
       “No, he don’t,” my mother said firmly. “Black folks don’t eat at white folks’ table.”
       “Why?!”
       For a moment, my mother stared at me long and hard, not knowing quite what to say.     Then she regained herself.
       “You just hush up,” she said angrily. “Yo’ daddy will take care of this.”
       I knew better than to talk back to that tone of voice.
       “Robert!” my mother called toward the back room. “Robert! Come out here!”
       My father reappeared in the kitchen.
       “That boy’s food’s ready,” she said, calmer now.
       I watched as my father picked up the plate of food and the fruit jar from the table and started back outside. I followed.
       The black man was standing at the back porch steps. My father offered him the plate of food and the hot coffee.
       “Thanky, Mr. Johnson,” the black man said politely, eyeing the eggs eagerly.
       “You’re welcome, Calvin,” my father replied. “Just give me a good straight ditch.”
“I will, Mister Johnson.”
       With that, my father turned and headed toward the barn. At first I started after him, then I suddenly stopped and turned to the black man.
       He had seated himself on the back porch steps, the plate perched firmly on his closed knees and the fruit jar of coffee planted on a higher step within easy reach.
       I watched as he ate the eggs and sausage biscuits and I wondered why he was not allowed to sit at our table. Even with his black coloring, I wondered what was so radically different about this man that my parents seemed to view him as a species separate from themselves. Even “no-count” Mr. Robertson ate at our table. But he was white.
       As I watched this black man eat, I was somehow filled with a mysterious sadness. Finally, I walked over and took a seat on the steps below him hoping that I could somehow make him feel better after having been treated so differently. I asked him where he lived and if he had any kids and where his mother and father were. I asked him if he liked to dig ditches and how many shovels he had.
       The black man listened patiently and politely to my childish attempts to make conversation, eating all the while. I know he heard my every question, but he didn’t reply to a single one. When he had finished the food, he handed the empty plate and fruit jar to me and politely said I should take it back inside.
       “I gotta work now,” he said, getting up from the porch steps.
       I watched as he picked up the shovel and broke open the fresh, black earth to start the ditch to the barn. After he had thrown aside several shovelfuls, I went back inside with the empty plate and fruit jar.
       In the years that followed, my father tried in every way to school me in the ways of prejudice. He said I should never defer to blacks and they should always call me “sir.” My father said blacks had their own way of life, their own set of values and were destined to forever remain separate from the white man. When my father was around his farmer friends, there was a tacit understanding among them that blacks were lazy, illiterate and inferior to the white man. They had their crude jokes and clichéd stories to support their beliefs.
       During the early sixties, when the civil rights leaders marched through our little town with signs proclaiming “We want our freedom!” my father, who was almost 70, asked me,   
“What do they mean they want their freedom? They have their freedom. Nobody has them in chains.”
       “It’s economic and social freedom they want,” I said cautiously.
       “What does that mean?”
       “It means they want the same economic and social opportunities as white people. They want to get a good education, earn a decent wage and have a sense of social pride.”
       “They’re Negroes,” my father said, indignantly. “They have their own place in the world just like the white man.”
       I tried to explain the meaning of social justice and the equality of all men but my father countered that the Negro is not equal to the white man and that Negroes were destined by God to fulfill a subservient role.
       From there, the discussion would continue--as it had so many times before--from one impasse to the next until I would finally drop the subject. Then my father would very accusingly say I had learned all “that equality stuff” in college. Then, he would bitterly shake his head and say college had turned me against everything he had tried to teach me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, throughout all those years, I had always had my own ideas about Negroes and the way they should be treated.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that his so-called “teachings” had all been in vain.
       Somehow, I’ve been sitting on those back porch steps with that Negro man all my life. On one hand, knowing that at some level within the human spirit there is a universal frequency at which all men recognize one another’s sameness. Yet, on the other hand, also knowing that human reason always manages to find perceived differences which most men will use to set themselves apart from their fellow man. This is the essential human trait that leads to prejudice. In my heart, I knew that trait would never totally die during my father’s lifetime. Many times, I have wondered if it ever would in mine.

                                                                           ******

Trapping Rabbits

(The following short story is a selection from my recently published book: "Alabama Stories".)

            During his boyhood years, William Vernon Johnson always spent his summers with his father and the black hired hands working the flatland fields of North Alabama growing cotton, corn and alfalfa hay. By mid-April of each year, when the land had lain fallow after the spring plowing, Billy’s father and the hired hands would lay off the rows and plant the cotton and corn seeds that would soon cover the brown fields with a rich carpet of green for as far as the eye could see. By late June, when school was out, the young corn and cotton plants would be almost knee-high and Billy, his father and the black hired hands would then “cultivate” the plants by turning fresh earth over the weeds around the plants which, if left alone, would smother out the young corn plants. On one particular day in late June of 1951, ten-year-old Billy, his father and the two black hired hands were cultivating the corn plants when something happened that he would never forget.
           Billy’s father always referred to the 15-acre field near the river as the “big cornfield” because, while he had two other fields, the 15-acre field contained most of his corn crop. On the days they would work the “big cornfield,” the black hired hands would take the mules and the plows to the field while Billy and his father would take their lunches and the pickup truck and meet them at the haybarn near the river.
           On that particular day, the quartet had started working just after sunrise and, by 9 a.m., had “cultivated” almost five acres of lush, green corn plants. When work started, the sun had presented itself high and hot in the eastern heavens and, from all indications, it promised to be a hot, sweltering summer day. By late morning, however, the temperatures had cooled quickly and huge, black thunderheads began forming in the northern skies.
          “We’re going to get some rain,” Robert Johnson told his son as he stopped at the end of the field to get a drink of water. “Might as well take your plow to the haybarn,” he added, “and go tell Rufus and Calvin to stop until we see what the weather’s gonna do. I’m gonna make another round.”
          Obediently, ten-year-old Billy turned his mule and plow away from the field and guided it along a hedgerow to the haybarn. There he unhitched the mule and tied the animal to a sheltered feed trough. Some 50 yards away, Billy could see Rufus, the older of the two black hired hands, guiding his mule and plow to the end of the row.
          “Rufus!” Billy called.
          The black man turned at the sound of his name.
          “Daddy said to stop plowing ’cause it’s gonna rain.”
          The black man looked up at the sky. Then, wiping the sweat from his brown forehead, he nodded.
          “We’ll be at the shed at the big oak tree,” the black man replied.
          By the time Billy had returned from the barn to the feed trough with hay, the sky overhead was blanketed with black, rain-laden thunderclouds and huge drops were beginning to fall. As Billy looked up, he knew that rain would be coming down in bucketfuls any minute. With no time to waste, Billy threw the half-bundle of hay into the feed trough, then dashed back to the haybarn.
         Finally, standing under the eave of the haybarn, Billy watched as his father hurriedly guided his mule from the field to the feed trough. By the time his father had tied his mule at the feed trough and started for the haybarn, rain was beating down.
         “Damn!” his father said, taking his hat off and slinging the water off the brim. “What a rain!”
          Some ten minutes later, Billy and his father were sitting in the doorway of the haybarn eating their lunches and watching the rain fall. In his lunch bag, Billy had his favorite food, a tomato and mayonnaise sandwich with lots of black pepper and lettuce. From the other lunch bag, his father pulled out a bulging cold chicken sandwich and wasted no time taking a bite.
          As they ate, the father and son watched as the wild rabbits, who lived in the bushes and thick undergrowth along the river banks, scampered to and fro among the low weeds. By day, the rabbits would hide in the thick undergrowth along the river’s edge. By night, they would come to the barn and feed off the oats that fell through the cracks in the barn floor and walls. Usually, if someone was at the haybarn, the rabbits would scamper off and hide in the undergrowth. Then, when the barn was unattended again, they would return to eat their fill of grain. On that particular day, for some reason, several extraordinarily bold rabbits had ventured to the edge of the undergrowth and were feeding on the sweet green grasses that had sprung up along the river’s edge.
         After his father had finished lunch, he reached into his lunch sack again and pulled out his favorite snack, a large red apple. Examining the apple, the father polished it on the sleeve of his blue workshirt.
         “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he said. Then he bit a huge chunk out of the apple and began chewing. After a few moments of silence, the father turned to his son.      
          “Remember the old apple crate we put tools in last spring?” the father asked.
          “Yeah,” Billy replied.
          “Go get it.”
          The son hesitated.
          “What are you going to do?”
          “I want to show you something,” the father replied. “Go get the apple crate.”
          Billy quickly gobbled down the rest of his tomato sandwich, got up from the doorway and went inside the haybarn. There he found the old apple crate with the tools inside. Quickly, he set the tools aside on the barn floor and picked up the empty apple crate. Back at the barn door, he watched as his father began whittling three small sticks of wood. Within minutes, the father had expertly cut several well-placed notches in the sticks and together they formed a triangle. With that, Billy’s father ordered him to get the empty apple crate and follow him to the edge of the river.
          “What are you going to do, daddy?” the son asked.
          “We gonna trap a rabbit,” the father answered.
          At the river’s edge, the father stopped and Billy watched as his father fitted the sticks together and used them to hold up one end of the upturned apple crate. As Billy watched, he could see that the carved sticks, when fitted together, formed a collapsible support for the upturned end of the apple crate. Next, his father sliced off a piece of the apple he had been eating and placed it on the pointed end of a stick which served as a triggering device. If a rabbit so much as touched the apple, the support apparatus would collapse and the apple crate would fall, trapping the rabbit under it.
          “Now, let’s go back to the barn,” the father said.
          As they walked, ten-year-old Billy could see that, high overhead, the sky had cleared and the sun had reappeared. Billy knew his father would want to return to the fields soon.
          “It’s cleared off, daddy,” the son noted.
          His father looked up at the sky.
          “Yeah,” the father replied absently. “We’ll go back in a little while.”
          Billy looked curiously at his father, not quite understanding. He had never seen his father not want to plow before. Despite this, the son obediently followed his father back to the haybarn and took a seat beside him in the doorway to watch their trap.
          The first rabbit, longs ears upright and nose wiggling curiously, scampered up to the apple crate and sniffed briefly inside. Apparently suspecting some sort of trouble however, the animal didn’t venture any farther. Moments later, another rabbit which had also smelled the sweet apple fruit, ventured up to investigate. Suspecting nothing, the second rabbit wasted no time in scooting under the upturned apple crate and nibbling at the apple. Immediately, the flimsy scaffolding collapsed and the apple crate fell over the helpless rabbit.
          “We got one!” Billy yelled gleefully as he ran to the captured prize. Through the cracks in the apple crate, Billy could see the trapped rabbit, a furry ball of fear and panic, lunging helplessly against the sides of the apple crate. With that, Billy’s father, with a burlap feed sack in hand, went to the apple crate. Carefully, the father slid the feed sack over the apple crate and the frantic rabbit lunged into the sack. With that, the father gathered the top of the sack and held it upright with the helpless rabbit inside.
          “Now,” Billy’s father said triumphantly, “we got a trapped rabbit in a feed sack.”
          As his father held the bag, Billy could see the frightened rabbit jostling around frantically inside. Suddenly, their attention was diverted by a call from across the field.
          “Mr. Johnson!”
          Rufus, the older black hired hand, was calling.
          The father, still holding the feed sack with the flouncing rabbit, turned.
          “It’s stopped rainin’,” the black man said. “We goin’ back to the field.”
          Billy’s father looked up at the sky.
          “Yall go on,” Billy’s father said. “I’ll be on in a while.”
          Billy couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. His father had never let a hired hand plow unless he was in the fields with him.
          “Now there are several ways to kill a rabbit,” Billy’s father continued, holding the bag for his son to see. “The best way is to break its neck.”
          With that, the father gathered up the space in the feed sack and trapped the rabbit in one corner. Then, grasping the rabbit inside the sack, the father placed one hand around the animal’s body and the other around its head.
          “If you can get him like this,” the father said, demonstrating, “it’s pretty easy to break his neck.”
          Billy was watching.
          “Now if it’s a big rabbit,” the father continued, “and he’s strong, you may not be able to grab him through the sack to break its neck.”
          Billy glanced back toward the field. He could see Rufus and Calvin following their plows along the rows of corn.
          “If that’s the case, then you tie up the top of the bag and sling the rabbit against a tree,” the father said. “Like this.”
          Billy then watched as his father showed him how to gather the sack at the top so it could be slung against a hard surface.
          “It’s pretty easy to kill a rabbit this way,” the father continued, “but, when you do, you break some bones and it’s harder to clean.”
          Billy--still not understanding the reason behind this demonstration--was listening.
          “If nothing else,” the father continued, “You can always tie up the top of the sack and beat the rabbit to death with a stick. If you have to do that, always try to hit it in the head so you won’t break the bones.”
          The father, still stood holding the bag, was looking down at his son. Inside the burlap bag, the rabbit was still flouncing frantically.
          “You got all that?” the father asked.
          “I think so,” Billy said thoughtfully.
          Billy’s father smiled. With that, he untied the top of the burlap bag and dumped the frightened rabbit out on the ground. In a mad dash for freedom, the rabbit quickly darted across the grass and into the thick undergrowth along the river banks to join his brethren.
          Billy’s father looked up at the sky. The sun was shining brightly and the skies were clear again. The father turned back to his son.
          “Think you could catch a rabbit and kill it?” he asked.
          Billy nodded.
          The father smiled, then he turned away from his son and peered across the cornfield where he could see Rufus and Calvin following their mules along the rows.
          “Let’s go,” the father said. “I want to get this field done today.”
          With that, Billy and his father retrieved their mules from the feed trough and returned to the fields.
          Billy never questioned his father’s impromptu lesson in rabbit trapping. He was well aware that his father had a great love for the outdoors and enjoyed all types of hunting, fishing and trapping. In later years, when Billy thought back on the incident, he dismissed the lesson as nothing more than a devoted outdoorsman teaching his son the art of trapping a wild animal.

 

                                                                                       
          In June of 1975, 34-year-old William Vernon Johnson was working as a sports writer for the Herald in Birmingham. Although he was a well-respected writer, the sports editor had said during a recent staff meeting that he wanted more in-depth features from Billy.
          “Hard-hitting, colorful pieces,” the editor had said. “I want good solid human interest stories with a strong sports angle, particularly baseball and football.”
          “How about an interview with the stepmother of a former major league baseball player?,” Billy asked.
          “Who?” the editor asked.
          “'Pig' Thomas,” Billy replied.
          “Howard ‘Pig’ Thomas? The one that played catcher with the Phillies?”
          “That's him,” Billy said.
          “Good possibilities,” the editor said, “But I want drama, good quotes and lots of color.”
          Many years before, Billy had heard his father talk about Howard “Pig” Thomas Jr., a Birmingham native who had played minor league ball in Birmingham and later played for the  Phillies.  He was nicknamed 'Pig' because once, during a game in Mobile, he had chased a farmer’s pig off the playing field. His father, Howard Thomas Sr., had played in the minors and had had major league aspirations, but had never made it in the big leagues. After drifting around the old Southern League for several years, the father finally gave up his baseball aspirations, got a job at a local car dealership and married Nellie Hardy, Billy’s father’s sister. That meant that Billy’s aunt was 'Pig' Thomas’s stepmother.
          The following morning, Billy called his Aunt Nellie.
          “Billy!” the aunt said when she heard his voice. “My goodness, I haven’t seen you since Robert’s funeral.”
          Billy explained that he was working as a sports writer in Birmingham and wanted to come visit her and do an interview about 'Pig' Thomas.
          “Why, sure…” she said, “I’d love to see you, Billy.”
          Late that afternoon, Billy drove from Birmingham down to his aunt’s house in Bessemer. As always, she hugged him and seemed so happy and surprised to see him. Although he was a grown man now, she still made over him as if he were still a little child. Finally, after the greetings and small talk were finished, the aunt and nephew sat down to do the interview.
          Of course, she remembered 'Pig', she said, and how he had made lots of money as a professional baseball player, but could just never seem to hold on to it.
          “If 'Pig' had money, everybody had money,” his Aunt Nellie said, “and he would just give it away to his friends. He was too good for his own good.”
          With that, she told several stories about Pig’s relationship with his father, how his heart had been broken when the Phillies dropped his contract and how finally, broke and deep in despair, he shot himself to death in a car one night in Tarrant.
          Finally, after the interview, their talk turned to a discussion of his father’s childhood. When Billy was growing up, he remembered that his father had talked very little about his own childhood. Somehow, Billy sensed that his father didn’t want to remember those years because there were hidden pains and bad memories he didn’t care to relive. Despite this, Billy had always wondered about the details of his father’s childhood, so he plied his aunt for answers.
          “When our mother died in 1909, she left behind five children ranging in ages from four to thirteen,” the aunt recalled. “Our father couldn’t work and take care of all us kids too, so he married a woman who had six children of her own. This meant there was a houseful of eleven kids and we had it pretty rough.”
          “How do you mean ‘rough’?” Billy asked.
          There was a pause.
          “Didn’t your father ever tell you about our stepmother?” the aunt asked hesitantly.
          “Not really,” Billy answered.
          “Well, our father would go off to work in the coal fields,” the aunt continued, “and he would be gone two and three weeks at a time. Lots of times, there wouldn’t be enough food in the house to feed eleven kids, so our stepmother would lock us kids out of the house and feed what food there was to her own kids. One time, when things were really hard, she locked us out of the house for  almost a month.”
          “What did you do?”
          “Well, the oldest ones could do some kind of work and take care of themselves, but the three youngest, me and your daddy and aunt Evie, were left at the mercies of the world.”
          “Daddy never talked about that,” Billy said.
          “Your father didn’t talk about it because we had some really hard times,” the aunt continued. “We borrowed quilts and slept under trees and in old houses.”
          “How did you eat?” Billy asked.
          “Your father would trap rabbits,” the old woman said. “He was the best rabbit trapper God ever made. If there was a rabbit anywheres around, your father could catch it and cook it.”
          “You mean all you had to eat was wild rabbits?”
          His aunt Nellie nodded sadly.
          “We young kids would have starved if your daddy hadn’t known how to trap rabbits.”
          With that, a bright light suddenly glowed inside 34-year-old Billy Johnson and his mind trailed off to early June of 1951.

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