FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 105

Corrina gently broke loose from her mom and walked to the car to be alone. Red got up off his knees with a groan and limped over to me. He said in a low voice, “Pup, you better go talk to that girl there.”

When he saw that the others were listening, he added, louder, looking around, “Don’t think for a New York minute I’m payin’ ya’ll for today’s pitiful showin’ of work, least of all the Pup here who has cost me an arm and a leg this summer. Oh, no, the whole bunch of ya can all forget ‘bout seein’ any Do-Re-Mi this Friday.”

But I saw him wink at Mrs. Mac and give a rare Red Williams smile. All was well with the world. It could get back to turning and spinning the way it normally would, kind of. I doubt it would ever spin the same way again, not after this summer.

I stood with Corrina, leaning against the ’51 black Studebaker. Watching the bricklayers continue to work – albeit unenthusiastically – it seemed everything was moving in slow motion. Soon, I knew it would be over. Soon the tall two-story house that now was almost complete on the outside but a work of progress on the inside – much like both Corrina and me – would be complete, and the McClains would move in and start their new life.

Standing together, watching the scene thinking how unnatural it was for the Pup not to be in the picture, we listened as another song of 1973 came on. I took Corrina’s hand as it played. It seemed to cheer her up, and she sang softly along with the chorus of the Tony Orlando and Dawn’s song: “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree.”

“That song will be around for a long, long time, I bet,” I said.

Corrina nodded.

“Do you know,” I said, trying to be upbeat, “I jus’ heard on the radio that “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” rose to number one on the pop charts right before you and I met,” then added quickly, “Do you know what the number two hit was?”

I asked it as if I were the host of a music game show.

“Tell me,” she said, looking up at me, kindness in her eyes. She knew what I was doing. I never could fool her, although I never quit trying.

“The number two hit was ‘The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia,’ Vicki Lawrence.”

Corrina smiled again.

The extraordinary had almost become the expected that summer.

“I bet you don’t know what number three was?” she said, surprising me. Before I could guess, she said, “It was ‘Sing,’ by the Carpenters. You should’ve known that, Mr. Sugar Ray. You just think you know music, basketball, and me.”

“Oh, I may not know the first two, but I know you. No doubt about it, I know you.”

“Or, maybe you just ‘knows ‘bout me,’ ever thought of that, buddy?”

I told her that there was a rule against using a man’s own words against him, but I could tell I might as well let the prosecution rest on that one.

We laughed, then listened to Tony Orlando and Dawn’s final lines, as the whole bus broke out in cheers because of a hundred yellow ribbons tied around that old oak tree.

“I like love stories that have good endings,” Corrina said, “that’s how it’s supposed to be, don’t you think, Pup?”

I was about to answer, but I noticed that Doocy already had the mixer cleaned out, and the boys had the truck loaded and everyone was making their way to the truck to go home. Corrina walked with me over to the boys. She stood back a bit and watched each man in the crew come by for a final handshake.

Charlie was dignified as usual, “Pup, you’re a good man, you’re always gonna be, I can tell that.” He gave me a firm handshake, and I could feel the strength in that trowel hand.

Willum skipped the handshake, just climbed up in the truck and said, “Pup, the word on the street is thet Ro’noke boy’s out lookin’ for yuh, good thang you’ll be gettin’ outta Dodge whiles you can, I can tell yuh.”

Everybody laughed, even Red, as he came by with his pants hanging extra low in the back from being on his knees so much laying that border around the front porch. He handed me my check, and said, “Pup, I’m givin’ you full pay, but I’ll be takin’ all the money you cost me outta these boys pay; so, you better head outta town early, they may come lookin’ for you.” Then he grabbed me and gave me a hug – shocking me more than anything.

Pee Wee jumped in with, “Pup, don’t be a stranger, I’m gonna need to take you to ‘court’ again soon. I got that rim fixed, so you won’t have any excuses next time.”

“Oh, lightnin’ never strikes the same place twice,” I said, “so don’t expect to win when I come home Christmas.”

Pee Wee grinned and grabbed my hand, and I could tell right then that he wasn’t slowing down at all, despite all my trash talk.

The boys were leaning against the truck ready to head down the hill. Red and Pee Wee stepped back when Doocy came up.

“Pups, t’Breeze forgot t’give you some’um thet he wants yuh to have.”

He reached deep into his pockets and retrieved something; I couldn’t tell what it was. He had it wrapped in a rag, and when he got it out, I could see it was in a plastic pouch for protection.

It was a coin, a shiny new one. He held it by its edge, looked at it, looked back at me, and said, “Heah, Pups, yuh takes this Prez Kennedy half a dollar. If yuh don’t spends it, yuh won’t never be broke.”

He handed it to me with that white-stained webbed hand that still looked more like a massive paw than a normal hand, and a summer full of volatile but precious memories swelled the banks and ran over.

With that, Doocy was up in the back of the truck – he didn’t even fight to ride shotgun that day. Pee Wee cranked up the red truck, put it in gear, and Doocy hollered out, “Don’t forgets Pups whut the Breeze says ‘bout thet midnight train, I sho be lookin’ for you come Chris’mas, yuh hear?”

“I’ll be on that train, Doocy, jus’ keep listenin’ for that whistle a-blowin’.”

Doocy’s response was his patented, throw-your-head-back, show-all-yuh-missin’-teeth laugh. Pee Wee started down that dusty red hill, and Doocy pulled one more “Doocy” for the road. He waved at me and Corrina standing close beside me, and then he began to sing again, at the top of his lungs, as he had done before, how much Pups loves Corrina. The singer of the song says to tell the world, but he could’ve saved his breath. Doocy was telling the world for all of us.

Pee Wee slowed the truck down to a crawl, and the whole dang bunch started singing aloud the chorus, but now it was “Miss Corrina,” making it personal for the you-know-who who barged into their summer and changed their lives forever.

They sang from the back of that truck all the way down the hill. When they merged back into view again, they still were all laughing and singing like a bunch of nuts. The last sound we could hear before their voices got lost in the wind – and the last thing I would learn that summer – was that Pups “hadn’t had no lovin’” since somebody had been gone, even though she was standing clear as day right beside ‘im at that moment.

All I could do was shake my head for the thousandth time in wonder:

“Miss Corrina, all I can say is there’s a bunch of crazy folks in that dang truck there.” I paused, and added, “and, yes, I said ‘dang.’ I guess you’re rubbin’ off on me.”

She smiled a smile that could’ve stopped that midnight train if she wanted, and we watched the old red truck turn the corner and disappear.

I was still running the Kennedy half-dollar through my fingers as the roar of the red truck faded. I chuckled at Doocy’s final gift and showed it to Corrina.

“Look, Pup,” she said, excitedly, taking it from me and pointing, “look at the date.”

I looked at the coin again. It read, 1973.

“Hm, our summer,” I said wistfully.

Corrina, holding on tighter than ever, a tear escaping down her cheek, said, “Yes, Pups, our summer.”

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.