Archive for November, 2008
Saturday November 1st, 2008
The telephone rang today–can you imagine? I suppose you can, suppose in fact that such a happening is not so rare where you come from. But let me tell you, around these parts the phone rings about as often as Moses comes knocking at our door, which is to say, never.
It’s a fact I jumped clear out of my seat at the breakfast table when it happened, knocked Aunt Kitty’s scones clean off the table. And what would you expect?
I suppose it would have been unbearably disappointing if that telephone call turned out something boring, like a goat loose on the road, and it’s the truth Aunt Kitty eyed Ben before she lifted the phone off the cradle and mumbled quite confidently, “Wrong number.” But indeed it was not!
It was Aunt Kitty’s uncle died, and this the first I ever heard his name. Nevertheless, Aunt Kitty’s scones sat there on the floor for the rest of the day while she fussed over me and Ben and what in the name of all that’s holy were we to do about making ourselves presentable for the services.
Now why a stranger like that should merit me puttin’ on a hat–a real hat, with flowers and bows on it–I can’t say I know. But Aunt Kitty, she says it’s the proper way to show respect, and this as she pinned her own ridiculous hat to her head the next morning.
Well, I don’t mind telling you I felt a right fool, wearing a garden on my head, and maybe I argued just a little bit, and maybe, just maybe, there was a little bit of a whine in my voice. Certainly though, nothing to justify Uncle Ben telling me I was carryin’ on like a stuck pig. Anyhow, the truth is I practically was a stuck pig by the time Aunt Kitty was done with her bobby pins.
For two hours we drove, the longest two hours I ever knew. There’s no gettin’ comfortable with a hat stuck on your head and pins poking you every which way. We pulled up to the graveyard and Aunt Kitty and me ducked beneath the windows so as no one would see us when the truck let out it’s backfire. (Ben says that truck’s just like an old man–sometimes it’s just gotta clean out its pipes with a little cough. Problem is, lately it’s cleaning its pipes every time he shuts off the engine, and there’s just nothing little about that cough.)
Well, we stood around the grave and the preacher did his preaching. The wind picked up and Aunt Kitty kept elbowin’ me for fussin’ with my hat. And the wind picked up some more. Matter of fact, that wind picked up so much it carried away a bouquet of flowers. And some lady’s handkerchief. And the preacher’s notes. And while the preacher was standin’ there stuttering and flipping pages in his Bible, that wind up and carried away mine and Aunt Kitty’s hats.
I don’t know as I’d ever heard Aunt Kitty laugh before, excepting those grown-up kind of laughs that never really amount to much. This was a real laugh, the kind that shakes your belly, and I’d swear that laugh pushed our hats even farther up into the sky than the wind ever could all on its own.
All this talk about showin’ respect and do you know what I was thinking in that moment? When God showed up in that burnin’ bush, did he tell Moses to put on a hat? No, he did not. Neither did he tell him to fancy up his hair or to clean up his clothes. “Take off your shoes,” God told him, and that’s what Moses did, cause really, who’s gonna argue with a bush that’s on fire and talkin’ to you?
Well we stood there bare-headed for the rest of that service. The rain started falling about two minutes after we lost our hats. By the end would you believe I was actually wishing for that ridiculous hat? A wet head is what I got. A wet head and a look from Aunt Kitty that most certainly said “I told you so.”
Wednesday November 5th, 2008
All you artists out there, and fellow lovers of things old and beautiful, have to check out Old Book Art.
In this version of Little Red Riding Hood, published by M. A. Donohue & Company in the early 20th century, grandmother was not eaten by the wolf. In fact, she threw a quaint tea party the [...]
Thursday November 27th, 2008
That’s Jack.
Least, that was Jack until a couple days ago, ‘fore he wound up headless and plucked and stripped of all his turkey-ish dignity.
I know I’m not the first kid to consider being a herbivore round ’bout the time I made the connection between what struts around our property all puffed up and proud eleven months out of the year, and what ends up on the platter on Thanksgiving Day. Ben tells me I need to stop namin’ all the birds, but I don’t see where that would make any difference at all. If I didn’t have a name, would he be eatin’ me for dinner?
You might suppose that my first conversation of a spiritual sort with Pastor JT would have something to do with gettin’ through the pearly gates or making some improvements to my moral character. You would be wrong. Me and Pilot and Wilbur hiked all the way over to the church this past Wednesday morning to talk with Pastor JT about a turkey. I told it to him just like that, too. He saw us comin’ up the road, me and my dog and my goat, and he called out from the church steps, “Well, good morning, Miss Tevis! What can I do for you and your friends today?” And I told him, real serious-like, “Sir, we need to talk with you about a turkey.”
Well Pilot figured since he was included in the greeting he’d go ahead and fill the pastor in on our troubles. That dog forgets sometimes not everyone converses in barks and whines, on account of he’s used to me always knowing what he’s gettin’ at. Between the two of us though, we managed to get our point across and were rewarded for our efforts with a scripture and a suggestion.
The scripture was about how God gave man dominion over the earth. And the suggestion was this:
“Thanksgiving is a time to count our blessings, Tevis. Thank the Lord for providing you with a home, a family, and provisions for each day.”
Now, don’t get me wrong. If I was 57 years old and wise, might be I’d gather some useful stuff out of his words. But I’m just 13, and all I heard was a whole lot of dodging the issue. Here’s something I do know. There was no turkey eatin’ going on in the Garden of Eden.
I don’t mind tellin’ you I think that pastor just wanted to be rid of us right quick, ‘fore we laid somethin’ on his conscience that might creep up Thanksgiving day just as he was set to take a tasty bite of bird smothered in gravy.
Left with no other choice, I had to take this problem to the Lord, and you know how anxious that makes me. Well, I came away from that time of talkin’ with God with a fine proposal for Ben, and I took it to him right away. If Jack died of natural causes before Thanksgiving day, I said, then we’d enjoy a right fine turkey dinner. If not, well, then, we’d just have to make do with our potatoes and yams and greens. I don’t mind tellin’ you I was surprised when Ben agreed to my proposal. I suspect that had more to do with him trustin’ in the Lord than thinkin’ I’d come up with a good idea.
We heard the coyotes and their “yip-yip-yaroo!” in the night and when the goats started bleatin’ (‘cept Wilbur of course, who was sleepin’ just fine at the foot of my bed) and the birds started squawkin’, Ben ran outside and fired a shot in the air. He was too late for Jack, though, who we found next morning halfway ‘cross the yard from the pen, where the coyotes must’ve left him when the shotgun scared ‘em off.
I’ll tell you what. No one, nowhere needs to spend any time convincing me we live in a fallen world. I’ll tell you what else. One day I’ll be in a place where we won’t be eatin’ any turkeys, death by natural causes or not.
But today the best I can do is give Jack a decent burial. (What’s left of him, that is, after we have our fill of supper.)
