FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 84

We were wrapped up in our shooting lessons and the protests for a good while. Regarding the lovely’s lady’s protests, I was forced to pull Shakespeare and Doocy out of the hat simultaneously and tell her that “my sweet lady sho is protestin’ a mite too much.” 

In the excitement, we didn’t hear Mrs. McClain when she came unexpectedly out the back door carrying two glasses of lemonade. I finished up the lessons, to Corrina’s jubilation, but before leaving the court took the opportunity to show Mrs. McClain how much work I was going to need to do to get Corrina up to speed on her shooting. 

She laughed, and Corrina punched me with the ball with a “Watch it, Buster,” then snatched the ball from me playfully and sat down on the swing; but I noticed she was not so mad she didn’t save a spot next to her for her coach.

Mrs. McClain laughed at our fake argument and visited with us for a minute until I pried the ball back from Corrina and said, “Mrs. Mac, since you’re here, I’ll be glad to show you a thing or two, if you want,” which she took as her cue to go back up to the house.

“Oh, no,” she said, “you have your hands full with that one,” pointing at Corrina, “you two carry on, you don’t need Mama out here.”

I smiled. It made me feel good the way she said that. It was as if she was adopting me, too. We wiped the sweat away and watched as she examined the Lilac tree in full bloom by the back door.

I knew that July was not the usual time for Lilacs to bloom – Mama taught me that – but the species called the Bloomerang would bloom well into the summer and fall. Mama and I planted two Lilac bushes two summers ago, just before she got sick, and one was a Bloomerang. It had bloomed the last two summers in our front yard, standing in a direct line from our front porch to the basketball goal at the Whatley’s.

Mrs. McClain broke off a couple of dead branches and searched through looking for more. As we watched her, I thought of the poem Mrs. Long had taught, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” a Walt Whitman poem that somehow stuck with me, I think because Whitman was mourning the death of President Lincoln.

I asked Corrina if she had read the poem, but she hadn’t. I told her she’ll probably read it this year when she’s a junior.

“When you get to it,” I said, “you can be the smartest girl in the class when you raise your hand and tell the class it’s about President Lincoln and that the symbolism is that, even in a time in America’s history when there was chaos and trouble, the Lilacs still bloomed.”

“Oh, I’ll have Mama take me to the library this week so I can find it and read it. Your “sweet lady doth’ love poetry and history both,” she said, flashing me a victorious grin to show me that she, indeed, did get the last word on the earlier argument.

“Well, have ‘my sweet lady’ get Whitman’s ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ poem, too,” I said, surrendering. I said it almost as excitedly as if I were telling a basketball story. 

“It’s about Lincoln,” I went on. “Really sad. My teacher said Whitman wrote that one after they transported Lincoln’s body from Washington to his home in Illinois. She said that people would line for miles along the railroad tracks, men holdin’ their hats in their hands and women cryin’ as the train passed. That was in May.”

“And that’s when the Lilacs start blooming,” Corrina said, her eyes sparkling at her sudden epiphany.

“See, you’ve already got your ‘A’ for today; we’ve got more important things than school stuff; I need to teach you to shoot a layup,” I said, then jumped up and grabbed her by the hand.

She let me help her up, but not without a sigh that made me chuckle. She was definitely a reluctant student.

Aren’t they all, I thought, smiling.

The next ten minutes I attempted with minimal success to teach the art of the layup. I gave up after a while and convinced her to be my rebounder and, occasionally, the ball chaser. She wasn’t crazy about the job, but she was glad the layup session was over.

I thought later how those lilacs must’ve gotten a chuckle themselves at the session and the undeniable chemistry on display.

The sun was now on its last leg, its fading beams shining through the tops of the pines on the west side of the house, and I was showing Corrina every shot in the book – bank shots, running ‘teardrops,’ as we call them, the righthanded baby-hook, reverse-pivots that ended with a fadeaway, and more.

I showed her footwork so fancy Pistol Pete himself would’ve been envious, but when I brought the Pistol up and she didn’t know much about him I decided to save that lesson for another day.

By the time the final sunbeams faded, I showed mercy that would’ve made the Lord proud and gave her a break. We walked back over to the swing, both a little sweaty, and sipped on the homemade lemonade her Mama had brought us.

I could tell that something else was still bothering her, and I started to bring it up, but I decided to let us enjoy the breeze, and the smell of the lovely lilacs that were in the dooryard blooming.

Mrs. Long, you sure have come in handy this summer of ‘73.

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.