FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 80

Corrina and I walked back down the hill face to face with the burnt orange sunset and found Mama waiting for us with a soft smile. Grandma had fixed her a hot cup of tea and stacked pillows behind her so she could sit up in bed, and she waited patiently.

Corrina had a way of loving on Mama with her words and by straightening her blankets or pillows, then giving her the biggest hug. I’ve often thought of that connection, and I’ve come to think that one of the reasons Mama connected so well to Corrina was because she needed somebody who was nothing more than a blank sheet of paper to tell her story to – no prejudice, no severe storms in her history, no knowledge of all the background of all of our families. Mama also needed to make sure I knew the story, and maybe she knew I would need to unchain the tough memories and talk them through at some point in my young life.

Mama was intuitive that way. Whatever deep-thinking ability I have, I think it came from her, and from her daddy, too. Preacher Harvey was a deep thinker – very analytical, amazingly so for a self-taught man – and so was Mama. You couldn’t fool her either, not for a second. I learned that the hard way.

The hot bath revived Mama. She had rested as much as she could for our third Fridays with Mama, as we came to call them. After Corrina had loved on Mama and told her how pretty she looked and talked about little things we way ladies do, we started rehearsing some of Corrina’s and my conversations over at the vacant lot. Mama had many memories of watching me play football through the window at the lot and watching through the screen door as I shot baskets in the backyard until the sun went down.

“Did Billy Ray tell you how we scared us to death one night when we couldn’t find him?” Mama said with a laugh.

Corrina replied, “No, he didn’t!”

“Well, we looked all over for him one evening. Zion was as upset as I think I’ve ever seen him, because Billy Ray was his baby boy, as you know. I sent Pistol down to the fire station to check to see if he was there. He went inside the station through the front entrance and checked the television room but didn’t see him and came home and said he wasn’t there. But he was. He was engrossed in a movie, and Pistol didn’t see his head from the big recliner he was sitting in. It had been dark for a while before I told Pistol to go back and make sure, and he did, and pretty soon he came in the door hanging onto Billy Ray by the shirt.”

We laughed, and I jumped in, “Mama, I was thinkin’ that you were goin’ to tell ‘bout when I was about five and got lost in the ice and snow, and ya’ll found me shootin’ the baskets down at the Whatley house.”

“Oh, that’s another one,” and Mama told that story with great enthusiasm. I listened more to her speech than to her words, admiring her soft accent mixed with immaculate grammar maybe more than ever before. In days such as we were in that summer, you learned to grab on to some of the little things that would normally pass you by like a stranger on the sidewalk downtown, although, in the South, there really wasn’t such a thing as a stranger. Mama told of another time when they couldn’t find me and had to call the police, and, come to find out, I was watching a movie on top of the hill above our house with a family we didn’t even know.

“I think maybe the worst one of all was when we went to the county fair up in Columbus and lost him. He was only three at the time, and Billy Ray almost lost his mama that day, because that was as scared as I’d ever been.”

“Yeah, that may be my very first memory. I still remember bein’ there near the entrance of the fair cryin’ and lookin’ for Mama and Daddy.”

“My, Miss Louise, that’s tough for a mama,” Corrina said, then added lightly, “I guess with Pup’s having such a tendency to get lost, we’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

As I told this part to Cheyenne, he shook his head, smiled and said, “Just to think of what she didn’t know back then,” he said, “Corrina and your Mama both would’ve died if they’d known how you got lost deep in Yellowstone for four days a few years ago, Popman!”

My reply was simply a wry smile. I usually could talk a bear out of eating me, but on this subject I had very little defense for the number of times I had gotten lost both in the distant past and recent history. I also knew I couldn’t deviate off the beaten path with Cheyenne to go into that story. Taking a random path is what has gotten me in trouble in the first place.

Mama liked when Corrina said, “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him,” and she reached out and grabbed Corrina by the hand and thanked her. I could tell then that Mama was thinking further down the road than I wanted to think. We three sat together and enjoyed some more little tales together; then Mama abruptly changed the subject and the tone.

“Corrina, has Billy Ray told you what happened to Zion?”

There was a moment of silence. It reminded me of that half an hour of silence in heaven my auburn-headed Uncle River always talked about when he preached on Revelation. This moment would be a watershed moment, a term I learned much later, for all our Friday talks with Mama.

Corrina took her time. Her silence seemed to fill the room like that of the apostle John. I thought of Paul Simon’s song “The Sound of Silence” in the moments as I watched Corrina gather herself to respond to Mama’s question. She knew a good portion of the answer, and she had to prepare her mind. When her mind was ready, she slowly filled her in on a good portion of what we had discussed out on the vacant lot. Mama listened until Corrina finished and offered Mama her vintage soft smile.

That was Mama’s cue. I noticed again Mama’s gentle speech and thought you could hardly tell the difference between the two gentle ladies.

“I jus’ never knew how much all of that affected Billy Ray,” she began, “but Zeke was such a good man, Corrina Belle,” looking up as if the ceiling contained all the good memories from those good years. Her use of both of Corrina’s names made me think it felt like Mama was talking to a daughter instead of a young lady she had known for only a month and a half. But, the truth is, just as with Mrs. McClain, sometimes all you need is five seconds. That was the way it was with them.

“The Last Wave” will continue next week.

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.