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Tom’s
father had been killed, shortly after he was born, while on tour in
Korea. They said it was the medicine his momma used to ease her grief
that took her before he was old enough to walk. Jer’s wife had died
giving birth to Tom’s mother. The old man and the boy were the only
family the other had.
The
smells on the porch that Saturday morning in June were as thick as the
honeysuckle and as deep as the shadows of the giant bull bays that
muffled the rumbling of the freight train creeping a hundred yards away.
Tom could hear the funeral home folks bumping around just inside the
house where his dear Jer had lain in state since old age got him on
Thursday night.
He
looked up at the blue ceiling where the chains of the porch swing
creaked as he pushed slowly back and forth, almost effortlessly, with
the heel of one foot. The ceiling fan, sporting one lit light bulb,
wobbled, keeping time with his racing heart. He felt sick with sadness.
He’d
seen his grandfather cry only once, and it was after his dog, Sugar, had
died. Sugar was part beagle and, as Jer had put, part "traveling
salesman." Jer would take Sugar out on the railroad tracks to chase
rabbits or while he picked dewberries. Sugar was always with him in the
garden "scarin’ off the snakes" or by his side next to the
whitlin’ bench in front of Bard’s Store. After a day of loafing, as
he called it, Jer and Sugar would take long naps before supper in the
very swing he was sitting in. Tom imagined that the old man and dog
heard the same sounds, smelled the same smells and felt the same sun
that peeped around the corner of the tall white house they’d lived in
together for so long.
Jer
had started his prayer out the same way by Sugar’s grave, asking God
to please look after his little buddy until he got there. Tom could see,
from where he sat, the trailer axle Jer had driven in the ground to mark
the grave. Only the baling wire remained that had been used to tie Sugar’s
leather collar to the top of the steel shaft.
Jer
was old enough to be retired when Tom was born. He was a tall, thin man
with white hair who always wore his long sleeved shirts buttoned all the
way to his Adam’s apple. His suspenders always had his pants pulled up
just below his rib cage and three inches above his brogan boots. He wore
a felt hat that he only took off when he entered somebody’s house or a
church.
Tom
vividly remembered watching, from the other end of the porch, as Jer put
corn chops on his hat and cardinals landing there to feed. He also
hand-fed squirrels and chipmunks peanuts and pecans. He cooked cornbread
for a family of possums who lived in a hollow cottonwood tree in his
yard. Generations of children from around Jer’s place had witnessed
this same simple "magic."
School
was just about a quarter-mile away and, until Tom got to be old enough
to ride there on his bike alone, Jer would walk him to and from the
school house every day. Jer helped with homework, went to all the
parents’ meetings, met with teachers when things weren’t going just
right, helped with general maintenance around the school and even made
cakes and cookies when Tom’s class had bake sales to raise money for
class trips.
At
home Jer was an excellent cook and made sure that Tom ate right and got
plenty of sleep. Jer took care of him when he was sick and romped around
with him, as best he could, when he was well. He taught him to love his
life, his country and his God.
Jer’s
family had been part of the community’s little Baptist church for
generations. Tom had been baptized there before he became a teenager.
For all of Tom’s life and before, Jer had said the opening prayer on
Sunday morning. That church was where the funeral home people were
taking his Jer. Hauling him in a hearse on the same road the two of them
had walked beside since he could remember…the same way he’d be
walking by himself in less than an hour.
Tom
regretted leaving his dear old man to go off to college but recalled
what Jer had told him, "We’ve got a pretty good life here, you
and me. I know that we’ve had some things taken away from us that
meant a lot, but you know what? Whatever you put in here (putting his
index and middle finger to Tom’s temple), nobody can take from you,
ever." Jer had encouraged him to go to school, take some basic
courses and figure out what he wanted to be after he’d had time to
"put his feelers out."
Tom
had gotten a degree in greenhouse science, something he could make a
living at and share with Jer, who fancied himself as somewhat of an
amateur horticulturist. The plan was to go to the suburbs of the city,
make enough seed money with a small landscape business and come back and
open a greenhouse on some land Jer owned next to the highway. Another
few months and he would have had enough.
Folks,
both old and young, who enjoyed this peaceable old fellow showed up at
the little church to say goodbye. Tom had volunteered to say a few words
before the preacher got started. It was warm enough that they had to
open the windows. You could hear a train in the distance and the birds
were singing. He began with a prayer, "Thank you Lord for looking
after us and lovin’ us…."
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