Subhead
“Georgia on my mind”
BY STEVEN RAY BOWEN
Body
An hour later we were on the Roanoke Road headed home. We crossed the Chattahoochee River, now flowing so calmly where it overflowed only a few days before. I reached over to turn on the radio, but Corrina put her hand on my arm to stop me.
“Today Pup, let’s let it just be you and me.”
I nodded and thought of the Everly Brothers’ song and understood. Corrina kept her hand on my arm. I noticed she had painted her nails a gentle ocean blue. I knew she had something on her mind.
“And let’s not talk about your going to Texas, please, I can’t take that right now,” she said.
Again, I agreed.
“But,” she said, “but if you do, will you promise me one thing?”
“Sure.”
“You said tonight as you talked to your Mama that you’d come home for Christmas. If you go, will you promise me that, Pup?”
I imagined the Christmas lights flashing on all the houses we passed on the road, all set way off the road. I could see a nativity scene in one, right beneath the pine trees, and a reindeer flying in another. Christmas was almost here.
“Corrina Belle,” I said, “I promise you with all I have that you and I will spend Christmas together.”
I put a little more of that country road behind us, then added, “You know, Corrina, that when I told Mama that I’d ’ll be home for Christmas, what I mean is, I’ll be home with you. You’re kind-of my Christmas.”
That satisfied her. She slid over close, reaching her arm in mine. I knew that we needn’t say any more about it. Regardless of what the next three months held, we would be together at Christmas.
We drove on a while, and I said, suddenly, “You know Corrina Belle, I bet you somethin’.”
“What?” she said, letting go of me and sliding back over so she could get a good look at me.
“I bet I know way more classic songs than you do.”
Corrina hit me on the shoulder, and said, “All right, buddy, you’re on, no way you’re gonna win this one,” then she jumped in with, “Goodnight Irene,”
“Oh, no, tell me you didn’t! You can’t use that one. I was jus’ talkin’ ‘bout that.”
“All’s fair in love and song.”
“Okay, then, but a new rule: It has to be a song of this time period – mainly the 70s, or it has to be a song about Georgia.”
“Oh my,” she said, “I see some protests coming, but I’ll go with it. What do you have?”
“Well,” I said, “how about “Bridge over Troubled Waters.”
“You’re kidding? When was that written?”
“Written and sung in 1970, Simon and Garfunkel.”
“All right, smartie,” she said, “You said songs about Georgia, right. Georgia, Georgia … she sang.
I shook my head, “Seriously, you’re gonna use that one up this early? You must be desperate. We laughed, and I could not resist joining in with her, singing together with the best harmony either side of that ol’ Chattahooche River just about an old sweet song with Georgia on our minds.”
“I have one – sing with me now, and I hit the chorus, That’s the night the lights went out in Georgia ...
And Corrina joined in and we sang all that we knew. Then I said, “And we both know my backwoods Southern lawyer, don’t we?” With our minds being one almost, we said in unison, “Doocy!” and gave what may have been our first-ever high five.
“Here’s one,” she said, “Me and you and a Dog named Boo.”
“No way, that’s not a Georgia song,” I said.
“You better believe it,” she said. She reached in the dash and pulled out my eight-track tapes. She plugged in the greatest hits of 1971 and clicked over to the song. Sure enough, the first line talks about bright red Georgia clay that stuck to the boy’s tires after the summer rain. I had to shake my head. We knew about that.
I was about to ask where she got that information, but then I remembered we listened to that tape a couple of nights ago. Corrina looked at me with pride, as if she had won the battle, but I wasn’t toast yet.
“Okay, here’s one,” I said, “one you’d never guess in a million years.”
“All right, give it to me.”
“Ramblin’ Man,” by the Allman Brothers.
“Do I know that one? You made that up, didn’t you?” she asked. I couldn’t help but smile when I noticed suddenly she didn’t lose any beauty when she wrinkled her brow.”
“Oh, it’s real as your smile,” I said, slightly flirty. “That song jus’ came out. We heard it out on the job this past week. From what I could pick up between the mixer runnin’ and Doocy hollerin’ for ‘Pups, do this,’ and ‘Pups do thet,’ it is ‘bout a fella whose father was a gambler from the great state of …?”
“Georgia,” Corrina said, getting close to surrender I could tell.
“That’s right, a gambler from down in Georgia who wound up on the wrong end of a gun, or somethin’ like that.”
“Okay, ramblin’ man,” she said, “I’ll take your word for that one, but it will be investigated.”
We laughed, and she scooted back close to me as we got closer to her home. Nearing the Standing Rock crossroad, I looked for the chimney standing alone on the east side a few hundred yards from Cooley’s store.
“Look,” I said, interrupting our singing concert, pointing toward the chimney. You could hear the sounds of saws ringing and hammering, and carpenters were milling around that chimney. They had cleaned out all the debris and had already done most of the framing for a new house around it.
“Ah, that’s going to be a pretty house out there. Maybe we’ll buy it one day,” she said. I glanced at her.
We agreed to call a truce on the song war and finish it at a later time to be determined. Mainly, I think we wanted to enjoy a little quiet time before the day came to an end. We pulled up front of her house, and the porch light came on just as I turned the Nova off, and we sat still for a moment. It had been a full day. I could tell something was on Corrina’s mind, so I beat her to the punch.
“Okay, better tell me what it is.”
She smiled. I knew her too well.
“Pup, I was wondering. It was a hard day, and we shed so many tears, but this afternoon, we had so much fun. We laughed. We joked. We shared the good times, not just the sad.” She paused to try to arrange her thoughts just right before coming to her question, “Do you think Miss Louise would mind that we had fun today – I mean, we just had to leave her; and it’s the saddest day of your life, of our lives.”
“No, Miss Cori Belle,” I said without hesitation, “Mama would’ve loved this. That’s how she would’ve scripted it, there’s no doubt.” I let it sink in a moment. “Mama isn’t down in that graveyard that we left today. Mama has gone to heaven, and you and I are goin’ to have to go be with her one day. That’s our goal in life.” Then I added, “Whatever happens in this life, I want to see you up there.”
“That’s a promise,” Corrina responded, and I could tell she then relaxed.
Mrs. Mac poked her head out the door to check on us and threw us a quick wave when she saw that we saw her. We smiled and shook our heads again, as we had done for the exact same thing a hundred times over that summer.
“At least she didn’t come out to water those dang flowers,” Corrina said, then caught herself, “Oops,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth, I didn’t mean to say ‘dang.’ Sorry.”
That one amused me for sure, and when she saw just how much, she gave me a healthy elbow in the ribs and made me apologize,
“I’m not the one who said ‘dang,’ I teased, “but I guess I’ll have to be the one to apologize.”
She drew her fist back once more but withdrew it when I leaned over and gave her a kiss, the first one of that nature since we didn’t actually break up a couple of weeks before.
Judging by that kiss, I wished we could not break up more often.
Coach Steven Ray Bowen served as a teacher and basketball coach at Red Oak High from 1998-2012 and recently spent two years teaching and coaching at Ferris. He and his wife Marilyn (the “amazin’ blonde”) served many years with the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl/Ovilla Roads, but now spend time evangelizing in several states in addition to Coach’s work as a writer and author, including the writing of the ongoing novel/memoir here in the Press. Call or text (972) 824-5197, or email coachbowen1984@gmail.com, or see frontporchgospel.com.
