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

Word got out that there was a little trouble in Paradise over on that Alabama hillside where the nosiest people in the world were laying brick and creating havoc for one called Pup.

Naturally.

It wouldn’t be the summer of ‘73 without somebody – namely Doocy Dew – squeezing every bit of drama out of a situation that is possible, then making up some more to spice it up, just the way he put hot sauce on his chitlins.

I guess I was to blame for his suspicions because I wasn’t my usual chipper self one fine morning the week after Corrina couldn’t figure out if she was in love or what. 

Doocy picked up on it with his eyes closed, of course.

My face and demeanor always betray me at such times, so he quizzed me, first without saying a word – you know, just by the way he looked crossways at me with a wrinkled forehead, then the words would come later. 

When the words did come, they were something to the effect of, “Pupsie, whut’s gowyn on with my Pupsie, you can tells the Breeze. Sits right on down an’ pour ‘er out.”

I brushed it off and didn’t admit to anything, but he knew. The clincher came later that afternoon when Corrina and her mama came out to the job as usual. I was busy in the back of the house getting mud and brick up on the scaffolds for the chimney. The chimney was going to be almost 30 feet high – the most classic and iconic element of the entire house – and Doocy and I had been assigned to help Pee Wee work back there. You could still see the long dirt drive from the back of the house, so I had seen them drive up. Red caught me looking that way as he came rumbling around the corner of the house on a mission. He didn’t say anything but gave me the dirtiest look, which told me all I needed to know. I figured the dirty look was for holding out on him when he “knowed good ‘n well somethin’ was ailin’ t’Pups.”

Corrina walked over by the sandpile, and I caught her eye and gave her a little wave, that was all. When I reached another half-full bucket of mud up to hand to Doocy on the second level of the three scaffolds, I saw that he was “studying” the whole thing suspiciously. I rested the heavy bucket up against my right shoulder to give to him, but he wasn’t even bending down to get it. He was standing studying Miss Corrina who was reaching down and grabbing handfuls of the white sand and letting it run through her fingers. 

He looked back at me and scrunched his eyes. He did that two or three times, all the while saying, “Hm, hm, hm … thet’s all t’Breeze heah’s gotta see, now he know for sho … hm, hm, hm.”

I sassed him and said, “Doocy, come on, this bucket’s heavy; you can analyze my love life later.”

He knelt down hurried-like, apologizing profusely as he reached his big hand down to grab the half-full bucket of mud, but between the pseudo apologies, he was still grunting and shaking his head, making for “dern sure” (Red’s expression if he saw the ladies within earshot) that I saw and heard every bit of his reaction.

It’s not as if I could’ve missed even one syllable or the smallest Doocy gesture. That was the thing about Doocy. In everything, he was prone to the most outlandish, extremist, and far-fetched hyperbole. He couldn’t say “Good morning” without raising questions about what he really meant.

“Yes sir, let t’Breeze’ll say good moanin’ to you too, Puppy,” he’d say, “good bright sunshiny moanin’ it is thet, yes sar,” all of which would be followed by his iconic chuckle that could mean any one of 500 things. He was a born enigma. Pee Wee and I continually found ourselves looking at each other in confusion in those moments.

After I fussed at him and Doocy reached down and snatched the bucket of mud from me, I didn’t respond to him, just carried on as best I could as if I were the happiest boy in Randolph County. With some people, you can snap back with some comment and it will quell the fire a bit. With Doocy, any response is like pouring the whole can of gasoline on it like the one we have over by the mixer onto it; and it all ends with the same result: a blaze of fire that isn’t supposed to be there and that can lead to trouble.

In a way, that circumstance portrayed a good part of the summer. More than once, Doocy got to miss-paying attention when he was gassing up the mixer and ended up pouring gas all over the motor. The motor would catch on fire instantly, and Doocy would reach for the water bucket and jump back at the same time, hollering all along the way. When Red would run out there to see what in the world he had done, he’d frown at Red and say, “Red, yuh gots t’git a new mixer, this un ‘bout to blow us t’kingdom come.” 

Things that were bound to happen but hadn’t happened yet were always had something to do with kingdom coming. But I could agree with him on the need for a new mixer. I shocked myself and about caused a fire a dozen times having to cut the mixer off by shorting it out using that screwdriver.

But Red wouldn’t let Doocy get by with blaming the mixer without coming over to inspect the problem. He would walk over to the gas tank, run his finger over it where Doocy had spilled it everywhere, smell the gas on his finger, then give Doocy what for right there, no matter who was around to hear it, just trying to say “dern” and “heck” instead of all the other adjectives. The ladies heard such more than once as they stood back discussing some delicate subject, such as what kind of curtains to hang in which room or what flowers will look good over by that window “there or over yonder.”

The commotion often escalated until Doocy quit on the spot and headed for the red-dirt driveway to walk “all t’way to Gawgia if I hav’ta.” When he did that, he would walk fast and take big steps, and his head would be swinging side to side like a bobble-head doll, and you could hear him mumbling with every big step, “Doocy Dew don’t gots ta takes thet, no siree …” and so on.

Red would holler back at him and turn to the rest of us and tell us that this time, he was going to let him walk all the way to Georgia just like he said. 

Of course, Red would splice in plenty of colorful adjectives to boot, fewer than usual if the ladies and Mr. McClain were around. Then you’d turn around five minutes later, hear the red truck spitting fire, and see Red driving back down the road to pick him up. 

Pretty soon he’d drive back up the hill with Doocy planted in the back of the truck, leaning against the side with an attitude like he wasn’t going to budge once he got back on the job. 

Red would have changed his tune by then and would be sweet-talking him – at least as sweet as humanly possible for Red to talk – and it wouldn’t be long before Doocy would see me over by the mixer doing something incorrectly – which is the only way I did anything that summer – and he’d jump out of the truck like it was on fire and hurry over and take his frustration out on me, “Do t’Breeze gots t’tell yuh ever’thang ever’day, Pups …”

And, quick as that, life on the job would be back to normal until the next time, which, in this latest incident, was the Monday afternoon the weekend after Corrina and I ran into a little storm.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks” continues 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.