FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 96

When I got to the house, I parked in my usual spot between our house and Goodnight Irene’s. Grandma’s orange and white ‘56 Ford was on the hill by the vacant lot. She and Preacher Harvey or Aunt Gracie always parked when they were over.

I sat for a minute – right where Corrina and I had sat many times before and after our visits with Mama – and I wished my gentle safety blanket was there with me that rainy Friday night. I think I felt more alone than I had felt all summer. I would have to take that hard walk into Mama’s room alone. It’s not that I hadn’t done that over and over when I was home with Mama, but each day now had been more difficult because Mama had gone downhill so much over the past week. I never knew exactly how I would find her.

When Dixie told me that Grandma had called her house, I could feel my heart clench, the way you clench your fists. It loosened its grip when Dixie told me it wasn’t an emergency, for me to be sure and drive safely, the roads are slick. I knew Mama would’ve said, “Now, Billy Ray, you don’t drive too fast now. I’ll be all right until you get here.” It’s funny how I could always hear Mama’s voice. I didn’t realize it until later that parents would tell you things 500 times for that very reason. I always looked at Mama funny when she repeated some directions that I knew well because of the previous hundred times she had said them; but later, when I became a daddy myself, I understood why. I did it, too.

Grandma met me at the door and saw that I was still soaking wet from the rain, both from on the job and then at Pee Wee’s. The rain at Pee Wee’s had rinsed some of the red dirt I stole from the McClain property off me but not all. It’s been fifty years now, and it is stained as deeply into the pores of my skin and onto the bottoms of my feet as it was when I was a year old.

Some things just don’t wash off.

When Grandma saw my wretched condition, both by the job and by the blood and tears that came from Pee Wee’s dirt basketball court, she said, “Sonny-boy, you are a mess,” giving me her grandma smile. That eased my mind over Mama. She told me to check in on Mama but that I’d want to go ahead and take a shower after that. I slightly hugged her, making sure not to get close enough to rub off that day’s work on her.

“Billy Ray,” she said, as I started that way, “today’s been a good day for your Mama. She’s been awake a good part of the day, and she’s been asking for you. That’s why I called you to hurry home.”

With that good news, I scampered into Mama’s room. I expected at first for her to comment about my rugged condition, then I remembered that she could not see me. If she had, she’d have sent me straight to the bathroom to get cleaned up, adding something like, “What in the world have they been making my baby do out on that job?” Instead, I spoke to her and told her I was pretty dirty from the job and all the rain and that I’d be back after I showered.

Mama smiled – that may have been her first smile all week, and it did my heart good – and said, “I’m glad you’re home, Billy Ray, I’ve missed you.” I don’t know if she realized she had been in a coma most of the week. That was okay. She didn’t need to know.

I hurriedly cleaned up, ate a quick bite of cornbread and beans Grandma had on the table, and told her I would eat more later after I visited with Mama. Then I went to her room and stood at the door.

“Billy Ray?” Mama asked, but she knew. She could always tell. Perhaps it was how I sometimes would hesitate at the “brink of decision” as in Brumley’s invitation song, “Are You Almost Decided?” I was almost more afraid to cross that threshold sometimes than she was her own.

“It’s me, Mama,” I said, making sure my voice was composed and no fear had attached itself to my words. “I thought you may have gone back to sleep, but it is time for sure for you to perk up a little.”

She forced a vague smile. I walked in and hugged her now that I had washed half of Rock Mills off of me. Through it all, except when she would pass through one of her comas for a day or two, Mama was able to maintain that smile – neither the tears in my eyes nor the darkness in hers could blot it out. It was a strength I knew I would never find. I’ve searched, but not every gold mine produces those rare treasures. I have found a few nuggets but only out of her abundance.

Mama said, “Billy Ray, sit here beside me, I want to talk to you.”

I sat down, took her hand so she knew I was situated and there for her, no matter what.

“Your hands are cold tonight, son.”

“They stay cold a lot of time, Mama. I’m glad yours are warm.”

Mama took her other hand and rubbed it against mine. “Maybe if you keep yours here long enough, I can warm them up for you,” she said, and I couldn’t help but think there must be something meaningful beyond my years in her words.

“You know you won’t be able to hold your mama’s hand for long, son,” she said.

“I’m holdin’ it tonight, Mama, “I plan to do it for a long time.”

“It’ll be different tomorrow.”

I could tell she had been thinking of this conversation all day, maybe for a long time.

“Tomorrow you’ll be 17 …” she said. She squeezed my hand. Somehow, the weakness she could feel in my hand gave her strength.

I could tell that in that moment I needed to be there, nothing greater was needed. To speak would be from a cracking voice, so I held onto her and watched her breathe in and out slowly. I leaned up close to Mama and looked into her eyes, amazed again that her eyes still had so much light. If I could’ve looked down into her soul, I knew I would’ve seen a peace that passes the world’s meager understanding, the boisterous storm in her body notwithstanding. Turbulent and diseased, yet calm and whole. So many mysteries seemed hidden within her, and I wondered if I could ever discover them.

“When I was a child” 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.