FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 86

Even though Corrina was not directly involved in the hoopla that would soon be ablaze that morning, generally just her presence or even the prospect of her coming strolling up the road onto the job at any minute could throw gasoline on anything. In her own sweet way, through no direct fault of her own, she was partially responsible that day when Doocy’s leg caught on fire.

What caused the problem was that Doocy was watching for me and Corrina out of one corner of his eye and Red out of the other when he was pouring gas in the mixer, and he ended up pouring gas everywhere, including down his pants leg and boot. 

When he went to fire up the mixer, he fired it up all right... literally. 

The mixer caught fire and went “swooooosh” right up in Doocy face, and Doocy caught fire, too. He took off running and hollering when he should’ve grabbed handfuls of sand to throw on the fire right then. 

I grabbed a water bucket to chase him down and put him out, but I couldn’t catch him. Pee Wee had to jump down off the scaffold, cut him off before he got to the pine trees with all that pine straw scattered on the ground and set the whole McClain place on fire, and Pee beat the fire out with his trowel, which was the only thing he had handy. I

I came running along right behind him with the bucket of water and splashed it all over his leg, and Doocy thought the both of us were being way too “excessive,” especially Pee Wee who was beating him with a trowel.

“Excessive!” I said, “Doocy, look at your pants leg. You were on fire. You were burnin’. Your pant leg is scorched to shreds and your leg is charred like a marshmallow over a campfire.”

Doocy looked down and saw I was right, but – in typical Doocy fashion – when he couldn’t win an argument, he’d just get mad, act like it was somebody else’s fault, and not talk to anybody for the rest of the day. Beat anything I’ve ever seen.

And, of course, if you didn’t let it lay for a while, he’d just walk off the job and turn the whole afternoon into more of a soap opera than it already was.

One day at lunch Pee Wee and I got to adding up how many times Doocy quit that summer, and he came up with 11. Doocy denied every one of them and accused Pee Wee of making stuff up and polluting the Pup’s mind against him. 

In addition to being the master at hyperbole, our good friend with the webbed hand was the best I ever knew, too, at protesting. He could protest “better than them women during Prohibition,” Pee Wee said, and Doocy protested to that, saying “Pee Wee, yuh weren’t ne’er e’en at ‘Exhibit’on,” and that started another argument distinguishing “exhibition” from “prohibition.” Those arguments always ended the same way, with Doocy saying, “Well, let t’Cool Breeze’ll say it his’n way ‘n Pee Wee, you can says it your’n way all t’way ‘til yuh gets home or t’kingdom come.”

One day when Doocy put his protesting in overdrive, Pee Wee said that Doocy missed his calling, that he ought to have been a politician.

Doocy protested, “Pee Wee, why’s you gonna up ‘n says someum like thet?”

Pee Wee continued, “Because it’s true, Doocy. Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when I took you home with me to cut my grass for me and give you a little extra money – Pup was there, too, because we decided to shoot baskets after work.”

“Um um,” said Doocy.

“And I told you that when you put gas in the mower to be sure to use the gas in the red can because the gas in the blue can had oil mixed in with it. I use that one for my chain saw. Then Pup and I started shooting baskets and playing one-on-one in my driveway while you were cutting the grass, and we weren’t halfway through the first game and we saw you out in the front yard yanking on that rope to get the mower restarted like you were yanking on a bridle to get a donkey to move. Pup and I stopped our game and walked out there, and I asked you point blank if you put the gas in the blue can in it like you weren’t supposed to do?”

“Yessir, I ‘member thet like it wuz yesterdy, sho do,” said Doocy.

“And what’d you say, Doocy?” And before Doocy could answer Pee Wee said, “You said, ‘naw sir, naw sir, um um, naw, Doocy ne’er put none of thet gas from t’blue can in there, naw sir, um um,’ swinging your head side to side the whole time. But Pup and I both knew sure as the world you did.”

Doocy replied, “How’s you ‘n Puppy knows thet, did you’s ‘n Pups sees t’Breeze pour thet gas ‘n oil in there?”

“No,” Pee Wee said, “but you had the blue can sitting right over there by the front yard where you had poured it in, and when I took the gas cap off and checked the gas, what do you figure was all over my finger?”

“Oh, naw sir, naw sir,” Doocy protested, laughing now and showing his missing teeth, which he did when he was guilty as sin, “thet weren’t no oil, thet wuz grease from t’motor, naw sir, naw …”

Pee Wee ignored him and turned to me, and said, “Pup, what’d I tell him right then?”

I laughed and had to agree that Pee Wee had said he’d make a mighty good politician the way he could deny something with a straight face and almost have you convinced that he was right.

Then Pee Wee added, “Yep, jus’ like a politician, you use the blue can when you’re supposed to use the red can, then you look at people funny when they want to know why the country won’t run.” 

Doocy just chuckled and changed the subject.

That was one of the few times in the summer of ‘73 that he rested his case, but, of course, he brought it up later and tried to argue it away. 

You weren’t going to beat Doocy, not unless you did it with a trowel when his pants leg was on fire.

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.