The Old Hotel, Fall from Grace, part nine

This is a continuation of the story, "The Old Hotel". I might rename the piece, "The Old Fart Croaks", but for now will stick to original working title. This is a multigenerational story about the busted brained, broken hearted and soul sensitive, Gordon family, living in a ramshackled defunct hotel. Set in the dark and shining heart of Mississippi in the 20's and 50's. My conceit is that it is a story of grace, fall from grace and redemption. Also, emerging is the theme of a nature based family changing to a machine based family.

With my visual art, painting and photo shop, I am continuing the series, "Mary is my Muse". Both the writing and the painting are a personal exploration of spirituality in the twenty first century. The verbal and the visual explorations are different, but related. The minor themes are different but the overarching major theme, personal spiritual exploration, is the same. This is not something that I planned, it has evolved as I follow my creative path.

I am still working on the story. It is autobiographically based, padded out with imagination and wishful thinking. Tune in later for more episodes.


I started writing the story in April. If you want to start reading from the beginning, click on April, then click "The Old Hotel". After that, to read the next part click "The Old Hotel, Dog Days of August". After that all the parts are numbered, so you can work your way through the calender. Click May, then click "The Old Hotel part three", and so forth.

Leave a comment or e-mail me. I love hearing from you.

OOOPPPS, I hit the wrong button. OK, got that glitch fixed.

The Old Hotel, FALL FROM GRACE

Light followed dark. Day followed night. Earthworld circumnavigated Sunstar. Earthworld tipped on its axis and seasons proceeded in an organized progression. The weather changed, then changed again. The only thing that did not change, was change its self.

Preacher Gordon now had more change in his pockets. Praise the Lord, and pass the collection basket. Guilt and fear are effective motivators. As a last resort people may try to buy their way into heaven. Nickles and dimes went a long way, way back in the day.

Joe Gordon was a father and a busy, hard working, righteous man of the almighty Lord. He blasted THE WORD OF GOD from the pulpit of the little brown Church in the Wildwood Dale. The hell fire and brimstone rant fulfilled a complicated need in the psyche of the congregation. Also, Joe ministered to the lambs in their homes when they had a sickness or death crisis. The people appreciated the Preacher kneeling and praying for them to have the strength to persevere.

Also, Joe scratched the skin of Mother Earth under the Mississippi sun and coaxed forth food for his squirming family.

In the elderly, virgin forest he hunted meat to feed the growthlings and make them strong. He always bagged a bounty of game. In the green gold glow, under the spreading boughs of ancient oaks he became his best self. He resonated with the harmonic hum of nature evolved to perfection. When he was in the zone, a deer would magically appear and offer itself for his family's nourishment. He brought home the venison.

He was busy from the hint of dawn until nightfall. Always working, always a bit behind.

Kat sauntered sweetly through her eldest daughters chores. She was a dewy fresh bloom of beauty given to dreamy spells. She might be drying dishes when her mind just floated away, floated away and away. She would be standing there, with the family bouncing around her, holding the rag and a dish. Her eyes glazed, she would sway gently with a smile wisp on her lips. Then, after few minutes, she would put the dish away. And stir the pot of venison and corn soup simmering on the stove.

The second daughter, Vicky, pre-adolescent, and as ethereal as a luna moth, was also subject to absent minded spells. Her biggest chore was doing laundry, in a big black iron tub over a pine wood fire outback. She added homemade lye soap. She secreted cascades of salty sweat, tugging the heavy, hot, wet clothes from the boiling tub. When that most struggling chore was done, when the clean clothes were on the drying line, she went for a dip in the spring fed creek and she was refreshed. After the sauna like chore and the shock of cold water she would be as sharp as a clear quartz crystal and her spells turned ultramarine blue.

Mother, Belle pampered the growthlings and nursed the smallest while rocking in the nursing chair. She read to them from the treasured Mother Goose nursery rhyme book. That book and the Bible were the only two books in the modest cabin. Belle sang hymns of praise to the Lord as she worked. Kat and Vicky harmonized with their mother's heart string alto voice.

All but the youngest ones of the family worked in the vegetable garden. This work was done in the early morning before the sun got too hot. The fertile earth gave forth succulent bounty. Juicy sweet, tart tomatoes. Greens and beans. Several varieties of squash. Corn, which was picked right before cooking so the sweetness was at its peak. Potatoes. Yams. Okra. Peppers. A cornucopia to compliment the venison, rabbit and freshly caught fish. The family gathered for dinner and laughed at silly jokes. They sat a rough plank table. The parents had store bought wooden chairs, the growthlings sat on planks supported by field stones.

Joe spent the collection tithes for a new horse, Daisy Jane. He mounted the bay and visited his flock. The sick, grieving and traumatized lambs felt gratitude for the prayers that preacher uttered, as they knelt in their simple homes.

In the dog days of late summer, a newborn died of whooping cough and was laid to rest in the earth. Belle crouched in bed for weeks with the covers over head. Belle and Joe slept with the still colicky toddler. Belle, for the first time, pushed Joe away when he wanted to love her. She said "No" to incubator belly. She loved each and everyone, but she already had too many children.

As a young man, Joe had been strong with the vitality of a robust animal. He had been born into this world with abundant Irish natal energy. Now, he had the responsibilities of a large family, and took on the woes of his church flock. In his youth his reserves were like a metal coil, but now he was becoming unsprung.

One mid September day, when there was a freshette of Indian summer in the air, Daisy Jane troddled Choctaw Road with Joe astride her back. Preacher Gordon was out making his dutiful rounds to kneel in prayer with the down and out. His first stop that day would be to Winifred Whitehead, newly widowed and grieving.

The red clay Choctaw Road meandered through a stand of majestic virgin oaks. The trunks of the mighty trees were twenty feet or more in circumference. Ferns and mushrooms grew in the cool dappled shade. Branches from the trees arched from both sides over the primitive red road. Long beards of Spanish moss undulated gracefully in a slight breeze.

Riding along, Joe caught up with the little whizzle whopper, young Bug Brumfield, ambulating Choctaw Road with a broody chicken tucked under his arm. Joe tipped his grey felt hat and they said "How de do?", they squawked about the weather and whut folks were up to. The hottest news on the grapevine concerned a new man, Mr. Stu Stewart, who had driven into town in his very own automobile. "The finest machine you ever seen!" Mr. Stewart was a timber merchant. "He's agonna pay Helen and Bub Tisdale a small fortune, $550, for the timber on their land. He's agonna start cuttin in October." Then Joe and Bug wished each other well and they went on their way.

Farmer McPhee rattled down the road from the other direction, driving an old mule, pulling a wagon loaded with hay. Joe and McPhee jawed about the weather and whut folks were up to. "That fine gentleman, Mr. Stewart promised Albert Sidney Johnston $700! just for the trees offin that useless piece of bottom land he owns." Joe and McPhee wished each other well and then they went on their way.

Joe heard the racket before he saw the automobile. Saw it coming and steered Daisy Jane to the side of the road. The contraption whizzed by at an ungodly rate of speed. It kicked up a storm of red dust, Joe had to rub it out of his eyes. The driver was wearing goggles and a funny squushed down hat. Joe wondered if it was the fabulous Mr. Stewart who was making people rich.

At the edge of the dilapidated little town of Weir, Mississippi, Joe came to the white painted clapboard house of Widow Whitehead. He dismounted Daisy Jane and walked to the door, noticing the red rose bush in full bloom by the porch. Winnie was wearing a fancy black dress when she opened the door. At the neck of her dress a triangle of black lace, accented her creamy bosums.

Joe had been born blessed with abundant natal energy. But, he had been feeling broke down lately. His natal energy was whittled away and he craved renewal. He wanted to feel like the giant animal spirit that he had been in his so quickly fleeting youth.

Dear readers, you know what happened. She cried on his shoulder, her heaving breast, pressed against his chest, her fragrant hair stroking his cheek. Before they had time to think about it they were committing sin.



There was talk, of course. It was the most entertaining news to hit the boondocks in a coon's age. The men said to each other, "Wal, you cant blame preacher, she's built lak a brick shithouse." It was the number one story hissing on the grapevine, surpassing even Mr. Stewart in popularity.

The women pitied Joe's wife, Belle, and treated her with delicacy. Belle knew, she could literally smell it. Belle knew how men were.

There was a double standard. Men and women were different. Men couldnt help themselves. Adultery proved their virility. The fair sex was expected to be modest (so as not to incite the male, who had a feather weight trigger) and virtuous. The man plants a seed and he may go on his way. For him, it may be no more than a few minutes of pleasure. A woman receives that seed, and it may be with her for as long as gravity sucks her to the surface of Mother Earth. The woman will go through pregnancy, labor, and for the rest of her life, a woman will be concerned with the child.

There was always and forever some scandalous talk buzzing the vine. The woman was always ostracized. She felt the freeze of the cold shoulder. The general consensus was that the man's needs were overwhelming strong, he couldnt be blamed. The little man ruled the big man. It was natural for a man to want to spread his seed all around fertile ground. It was behooven for the woman to protect her incubator belly from bad seed.

Belle had heard, that even her father was rumored to have committed scandal. She tried to reason the treachery away, but she was crushed, shattered and broken. How could he do that? Take the golden beauty that they had created under the Goddess tree and profane it so?

Then Belle deflated, like a discarded rag doll. She went back under the covers. Her ever flowing breast dried up. So, the toddler was weaned to cow's milk.

Kat and Vicky knew, of course. Their age and gender cohorts could not wait to tell them. The snickering was humiliating. Vicky's body was changing into a woman's body. She got her the curse and had to wear rags and wash the blood out of them every moon cycle. She was confused and her moods were erratic.

Joe had morphed into a man that looked like Joe, but did not think or act like Joe. He was not himself. The secret (which was not a secret) gnawed at his gut. He had a guilt of biblical proportions. Unbidden visions of Winnie flashed through his mind as he tromped nervously through the woods.

He would not let it happen again. He would not think about the woman. He would think about rotating the crops. Next spring he would plant beans in the ground where the corn had grown the previous year. A flash of Winnie sin invaded his mind. Tomorrow he would go hunting down by Mill Creek, he knew that there were deer there. He would get one tomorrow, he knew that he would. They were out of smoked venison sausage. The young-uns were cryin for meat. Belle was lookin broke down, she needed meat to put a bloom in her cheeks.

The next day, down by Mill Creek, Joe sighted a fleeting deer. He aimed. Fired. Missed. He had lost his hunting mojo.


Then one day after the last harvest was in, and after the first frost, a visitor came to the Gordon family's little dog trot cabin. The young-uns heard the infernal racket first. A few automobiles had traveled down the red clay road before, so they were getting familiar with the noise. The family rushed to the front porch to see the new fangled contraption as it sped by.

Lo and behold! The automobile screech stopped at their home. The fine driving man was wearing a squushed down hat and goggles that made him look like a deformed owl. They knew that this was the famous Mr. Stewart, the man who was making everybody rich. His belly was straining at the best suit that Sears and Roebuck catalog offered, and dangling at his neck was their best red string tie.

Belle fluttered into the cabin to steep some sassafras tea. Vicky and Kat herded the growthlings to the dog trot, an open hallway which ran down the middle of the cabin. It funneled a breeze through the house and kept it cool. In the dog trot the children were out of the way but they could watch through the open door of the front room. Kat warned the children to be on their best behavior. Children were to be seen, but not heard. They were taught respect for their elders.

Joe invited the gentleman into his "humble abode". Mr. Stu Stewart was affable, Preacher Joe was respectful. Belle served tea in the "company" tea cups, and retired to the dogtrot. Because this was a manly event, little women need not apply. The children were jostling to get a good view of the exciting meeting through the open door.

With the money Mr. Stewart offered, Joe figgered he could buy electric lights, and one of these shiny white gas burning stoves, and, Praise the Lord, a wringer washer for Belle. Surely these magnanimous gifts would redeem Joe in his wife's eyes. Surely, she would be joyful again. He was sure that this would work and there would be a return of the golden harmony. A new sunrise tinted the horizon, he dared to hope. Laboriously, he printed his name on the line that Mr. Stewart pointed out.

After the automobile left, the children ran to the spot, bent down, and smelled the ground where the contraption had been parked. They exclaimed over the novelty of this new acrid odor.

Joe breathed some relief over the guilt that had submerged him. The promise of money lifted him. He knelt, with Belle, beside the bed and prayed to God. On his knees, leaning his arms on the straw mattress, where the colicky toddler lay, quiet for a change, he promised the Lord that he would not sin again. He pleaded for mercy and forgiveness. Belle listened, and she to dared to hope.

Earthworld circumnavigated Sunstar and the people lived by natural circadian rhythms. Earthworld tilted on its axis and they lived by natural reoccurring annual rhythms.

The family awoke just before sunrise. All but the youngest had chores. The fire was stoked. Biscuits were kneaded in a well of flour in the Hoover, then cooked in the stove. Cool, perfect, water was drawn from the well in a tin bucket. Cow and horse were tended, let to pasture. The dog fed. Sweeping, scrubbing. Plump babies cleaned and cuddled. The garden was tended in the cool of early morning.

Attendance at the Wildwood Dale Church had fallen off since the scandal. Joe hoped that his flock would sense his repentance and have confidence in him again. Joe still visited the sick shut-ins and others in need. He rode Daisy Jane to make rounds and often made his last stop in Weir to pick up supplies and tune into the grapevine.

The sawing had started in the forest. When he passed the raped gaps in the forest, he would not allow himself to feel grief, he would not allow himself to feel anything at all.

Joe avoided the Widow Whitehead. Daisy Jane trotted by her house while Joe mumbled prayers, "Dear Father, please remove this temptation." But after a few weeks---

She was weeding the flower bed in front of the porch. He could not just ride by without speaking to her. He needed to talk to her, explain things. As her minister he needed to tell her how he had repented, and that she should repent. Her immortal soul was in danger of everlasting fire. He dismounted Daisy Jane. Winnie stood up and looked at him with those dark exotic eyes---

Dear Reader, you know what happened, they sinned again.

Leaving the widow's house Joe headed toward Weir. Drained, morose, self flagellating. A tempest in his head. He was not self aware, did not observe, examine his inner radio. He would not do it again. She had been crying, here she was a grieving widow, it was his duty to console her. He would visit Mrs. Sherman now. She couldnt even get out of bed. Pitiful. Her poor selfless daughter, Pearl, cared for her. Couldnt even have her own life. He would pray for Pearl.

Next thing he knew, Joe was in Weir, sitting on his horse. Busted brained, broken hearted and soul sensitive. He was by the railroad tracks, in front of the new hotel. "Hey, Preacher, Preach, how ya doin? Can you har me?"

It was that old codger Badger Broomstead speaking. Joe knew him as the man who lurched into church only twice a year, for Easter and Christmas services. Joe needed to talk to him. Badger was a notorious sinner, the worst of the worst, a moon shiner. Joe had to try to help him see the error of his devil ways. It was Joe's Christian duty to show Badger the way of salvation. The poor man's immortal soul was in danger of burning forever in hell. Joe was a man of God, a vessel for the spirit of the Holy Father. He dismounted Daisy, there was no need to tie up the patient horse.

"How ya doin today?" Old codger Badger leaned all lanky against his old ragged out wagon. His broke down mule chomped at a bit of scraggly grass growing in the shade of the oak canopy. "Hey Preach, come shoot the bull with me?"

Brother Badger, I need to talk to you. Joe leaned against the wagon and crossed his arms over his chest. "Jesus is knockin at yur door. He is tenderly waiting fer you to receive the blessed light of redemption."

"Sho nuff, Brother Joe. You lookin lak you could use a drink. Here, try my latest brew. Just a little nip will sure cure whut ails ya." Badger said, and poured a generous portion into a dented dirty tin cup.

"Brother Badger, alcohol in an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. It's a signpost on the road to perdition", Joe stammered weakly, and turned that tin cup up and drained it. Preacher coughed and sputtered. Now he knew why they called it firewater, it burned all the way down.

"How ya likin that, Brother Preacher? Here let me pour ya anotha one. It'll help that cough of yourn."

The next thing Joe knew was relief. The guilt of biblical proportions faded and he thought, "Maybe things aint so bad."

A train chugged in like a fire spitting dragon. Three city people in fancy clothes, disembarked and walked past the drunkards to the new hotel. "Look at them city folks, goin in that fine hotel. Ya know its got 32 rooms, an each one has its own e-lectric light. Its got a fancy kitchen and four bathrooms wit runnin water and flush toilets. Whatcha think about that? Yur shit just disappears down the drain?" The sign hanging from the balcony said, "The Deluxe Hotel".

They watched the people walk across the porch past the freshly white painted rocking chairs. Then Badger said, "So you been bangin the Widder Whithead. You old son of a gun. Wish I could get me some of that. Aint no way even a preacher could resist that temptation."

Something Twisted in Joe's mind, "It aint my fault, that wicked Eve, she seduced me."

"Hell no, It aint yur fault. Aint no man on earth could resist that. Not iffin he has real American red blood pounding in him", the old codger spat a gooey wad of tobacco on the bare dirt ground.

"I am a man of God, she turned me from the ways of righteousness."

From their vantage under the shading oak, the men could watch, on the other side of the tracks, the one block strip of shops, lined up along the elevated board walk, that comprised the town of Weir. In the other direction they could see the city folk rockin on the porch of the new hotel.

Soon they were joined by the dilapidated farmer, Johnny Johnson, who bought a jug of white lightenin from Badger and then passed it around.

Johnny socked Joe's arm and said, "You been pokin Widder Winnie, you ole devil you. I thought you wuz just a sissy preacher but, by God, you are a real man."

They were joined by a few other men as the afternoon progressed toward twilight.

Joe's head was foggy, but not so foggy as to prevent his surprise that they all knew about his adultery. He was flabbergasted that his secret was no secret and even more amazed that the men admired his sexual prowess. Previously, Joe had seen the gathering of sinners under the oak. He would tip his hat as he rode Daisy Jane to the general store. Previously, he had whispered many prayers for their doomed immortal souls.

Now, he felt different. Masculine camaraderie, other than the churchy kind was new to him. The invisible barrier between preacher and flock was knocked down by the booze. He was one of the guys now, something that he had not known that he had missed.

The sky was reddened by the setting sun. Codger Badger said, "Preacher, you better git goin while the gitten is good". Badger didnt want the preacher to pass out right there on the bare ground in town. He sold Joe a jug and helped him mount his horse.

When he got home, Belle thought, "Land o sakes. Hope Joe aint sick, he stumbled in here and fell on the bed fast asleep. Surely he dont smell lak likker."

Graceland, The Old Hotel, part eight

The Mississippi Forest was elderly and virgin. A primeval paradise. There was perfect balance in all the elements of ecology.

Back in primordial time, seeds dripped from the bosom of Mother Earth, took root and grew with rapture. Over centuries, each element found its function, in an infinitely intricate pattern of interrelationships.

There were creatures flying in the sky, the bird people. Four leggeds crawled the surface, the deer people, coyote people and rabbit people. Submerged in the water, the fish people swam. Creatures burrowed in the deep rich loam. Two legged critters ran on the green green skin of Mother Earth. Some of the two leggeds could sense that the forest throbbed with Grace.

The Forest was bountiful with food for all the creatures.

Two legged critters harvested berries, herbs, mushrooms, roots and meat. Logs from the forest made strong homes and warmed those homes with fire. The people were blessed with all that they needed.

Mighty, mighty trees pierced the sky and formed a cathedral canopy of dappled shade. Abundant water flowed in stream and river systems. Water evaporated, formed clouds and rain. Rain returned to the streams. The circle was unbroken.

The Earth spun on her axis and circled the sun. There were brilliant days and velvet nights. There were seasons, coming, going, and returning. There were beautiful patterns of time and substance.

In this Forest of Grace, there ran a two legged critter as wild as the day and night. Belle, the beauty with bare feet and tangled hair. She was scantily schooled and her manners were simply basic. She was free from irony. Consumerism and the media tools of consumerism had not yet invaded the land.

Belle's brain was just an embryo of potential. Her rare thoughts, just wisps in the breeze of her emotions. Her occasional ideas, just wispy clouds in the winds of sensation.

Her element was air. Fueled, she was, by blood buzzing joy. Jossled by the music of symEarthony. From her nose to her toes swooshed sun warmed blood. She was free of fashion, free of fastidious grooming. Barefooted, hair tangled, freshtooned. So pretty, she made the aunts cry; so wild, they shed more tears. When her breast buds bloomed, the boys began to cry.

Joe Gordon was gawky and graceful. A human animal respiring wild. Muscled, taunt, strong. Rooted, roaming Eden, the endless elderly forest. His element was metal, as in a spring coiled with energy.

He hunted the forest with an old, perfectly maintained, shotgun. Proudly providing meat for his family table by conspiring with game. He put venison into broth simmering on the wood burning stove. Gusto eating of his catch, souped up with just picked corn. Younger siblings stopped squalling and slurped the broth.

The Forest was the heavenly stage of Belle and Joe's short and shining golden time.

Belle and Joe were biologically magnetized to each other.

Belle in her home, Joe in his, they awoke with the first hint of dawn. Awoke in a bed of siblings squirming like a basket full of puppies. They completed their chores quickly. With the sun still early in its climb from the horizon, they ran for the woods. Joe with his shotgun. Belle with her berry basket.

There was no need to plan a place to meet, hormonal magnetics brought them together. They ran into each other. They would discover each other, on a trail, or at a cross path, or under a stand of almighty pines. Together, they foraged the forest for food. They filled game bag and basket.

When the sun passed its zenith, they drifted to the cool shade of the Goddess tree. Down by the river where breezes danced. There, they playfully explored their changing bodies. Simmering, sizzling, ignition, combustion. They did what comes naturally on a bed of emerald moss.

And thus began Belle's "incubator belly" years.

A literal shotgun wedding. Both bride and groom as ignorant as the day is long. Both required coercion to do the right thing. Manipulated by wiser adult relatives. Kat was there, Katherine Carol Gordon, attended the country wedding, floating in amniotic fluid in her mother's belly.

Mary Victoria Gordon, Vicky, entered the next year. As the earth circles the sun, babies were painfully pushed out with annual regularity.

Life followed an immemorial plan. The couple refreshed the webs of glow that is existence. Lots of babies, fresh from the Goddess. Over populated the log cabin. Squirming, silk skinned, critters to cuddle and warm the heart. Adorable, maddening, constantly needy newborns and toddlers and growthlings.

Joe plowed and planted and sweated soil. He loaded giant watermelons and blackeyed peas and a growthling or two, onto the wooden wagon. Hitched up the hand-me-down horse and drove to town. "Gee, haw."

Money was as rare as blue cows. They used very little cash. Change from selling the garden produce covered their modest needs. Store bought items consisted of flour, sugar, and seeds, with an occasional splurge for calico.

Joe met farmer cronies in town. They gruff talked of weather and seed varieties. Joe spotted the Nursing Chair, a rocker, made of smooth varnished walnut, in the general store. The price was $3.00. He spent his life savings on the elegant chair as a present for Belle.

Rocking soothed Belle and the latest suckling infant. Crawlers, toddlers and growthlings were tended by Kat and Vicky.

Then one day, the sun was shining, Joe was plowing, and the huckleberry bush was burning, without being consumed by fire. That was when God called Joe to be his agent in that neck of the woods.

It started well. Hallelujah, Praise the Lord.

Joe was first a guest preacher, and soon, master of the flock, in the little brown church in the Wildwood. On Sunday mornings, the earth rooted farmer families put on their best clothes, and met for Sunday School. Then the choir sang, and then Joe preached. "Amen, Brother Gordon." The log walls, the air and even the surrounding woods began to listen when the children whispered their sweet Sunday School prayers. When the choir sang, the environment would hum along.

Then Joe would preach. God spoke directly to the small congregation through Joe's mouth. The sky god berated the flock for their sins. In the Bible it is written that god said "Vengeance is mine."

Oh yea! God was pissed off. He created people, but his children had not turned out the way that he planned. Early on, the very first people, ate the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The serpent made them do it. They developed a mind of their own.

When Joe sermonized, the Almighty, vengeful, God possessed Joe and spewed forth hell fire and damnation. The air vibrated. The logs were a furious drum beat. The forest quivered in fear.

The congregation was a flock of lambs. They masochistically felt purified by the punishful criticism. Yearning heaven and fearing hell, they were grateful to be shown the way. Motivated by guilt, they put their pennies and nickles into the collection basket.

To close the tongue lashings, Joe walked from the pulpit, down the aisle, to the door with his arms raised, while pronouncing the benediction, "GO AND SIN NO MORE." The lambs felt cleansed, confident that they could make it through the week sin free.

Change from the collection basket made money as plentiful as brown cows. Which were not really all that plentiful. Joe saved up to buy the family's first brown milk cow.

The milk, squirted into a tin pail, each morn by a growthling, gave Belle a bit of a break from her own, cow like duties.

The Old Hotel, Part Seven, Rude Awakening

My earliest memory is set in Belle and Joe's dog trot log cabin. I remember floating out of the baby cradle. I had been in that constrictive human baby body for four long earth months. I wanted to return to my home of light. I escaped the tight flesh and moved about freely. The room flickered with oil lamps. I floated over my mother and her mother, sitting close to the cast iron wood burner. I saw Mama Gordon rocking in the nursing chair and Mother sitting in a straight wooden chair, beside her. Out the window I soared. Out to the night. Below me the ground glistened with moonlit frost.

Their front sides baked by the fire, while their back sides were cold. Belle Gordon drowsed while Victoria droned on about a dress that she was planning to sew. She had the Butterick pattern and a length of striped linen from the Woolsworth in Jackson. Belle snored once, then jerked abruptly alert. She went to the little crib in the far corner of the room, where new baby Jan slept. The child was as cold as ice and her breathing slow and shallow.

Returning to the nursing rocker and the small circle of wood heat, she clasped the fading infant to her love beating heart and wrapped herself and the babe in a wool shawl.

"Victoria, your baby is almost frozen to death. No, I will hold her, she will warm up soon."

I was joyous to be back to my true home. Vibrating to a symphony of light. Then after only an instant of peace, I was sucked back and anchored in that infant flesh cage. Waves of healing circled from my grandmother's heart. I was resigned to the body, and then, I glowed with Belle's love, and knew that I would be in that flesh vehicle for many Earth seasons.

The Old Hotel, Part Six, Belle and Joe

Joe Gordon and Belle Presley were wizened teens when they hitched up. They grew up on dirt farms in the shining dark heart of Mississippi.

Belle had spent her 15 child years doing her full share of chores. Cooking biscuits on the wood burning stove; washing laundry outback, over the fire, in a big cast iron pot with homemade lye soap; and helping out in the fields during planting and harvest. She walked three miles to the one room school house and learned to read, write and figure numbers. Still, there was plenty of free time to run wild in the woods like a graceful doe. She visited with her woodland friends; flowers, birds, deer and rabbits. She marveled at the yard rooster, mating thirty times each day, mounting the patient hens. She picked blackberries and could make a delicious jelly with nothing but sugar and the free bounty of the earth.

Joe was a strapping eighteen and magnetically driven to marry the beauty with blackberry thorn scratches on her shapely legs. He was prepared to provide for a family from the cornucopia of the land. He could plant and harvest. He shot meat, rabbit, deer and, as a last resort squirrel. Could dress and smoke game. His short attendance at school gave him the ability to write his name and read the Bible slowly. He just didnt take much to book larnin. Belle was drawn to his soulful, long lashed blue, gray eyes.

They were American peasants of sturdy Irish stock.

In the mid 1800's much of poor Ireland depended solely on potatoes for food. The Imperial British had taken all the best land to grow beef that was imported to England. The subjugated Irish were left with only small plots of the poorest soil. They were forced to mono crop potatoes in order to eat.

The potato blight hit about 1840. An estimated one million people starved and another million emigrated on coffin ships. A mortality rate of 30% occurred in the fetid holds of the coffin ships. Driven from the Emerald Isle, emaciated and weak, they were stuffed into the bowels of ships. No sanitation, scant food. Even cattle were treated better. Even Africans, bound for slavery were treated better. Cattle and slaves have monetary value. The ships purse already held every last copper the Irish could scrape together. They had no value, dead or alive.

In America, the immigrants had sufficient fertile acreage to support large families.

Joe and Belle were strong, healthy, sentient animals. Well fed, hard work made them strong. They could help feed the family and eat the rewards of their labors. Living close to the earth and running the forest, gave them confidence of their blessed place in the great scheme of Mother Nature.

Joe's father gave them land. Joe felled timber and built a cabin, with help from his brothers and cousins. Belle's belly became an incubator, as they were blessed with many children. Children who could help with farming and take care of them in old age. They ate well. Sunsets were their TV.

Joe received his calling from God as he plowed the corn field with Sally, the mule. It was just like Moses, as described in the Bible, that he pondered nightly. A huckleberry bush, to the east of the corn field, shined with fire, but was not consumed by the fire. He saw himself in front of a congregation, leading the lambs back to their father.


In the little brown church in the wild wood dale, Joe often recounted his calling to the flock. It gave him credibility. Everyone knew that a man must be called, chosen by God, the Almighty, before he could preach.

God spoke directly from Preacher Gordon's mouth. Booming out shame and burning brimstone. The brothers and sisters of the Holy Commandments Church had been born into dispicable sin. With their first breath, even as new born babes, they were drowning, lost in sin, owned by the devil. Salvation came from deep repentance of sin and being washed in the blood of Jesus. Bathing in blood made them white as snow. Their garments were spotless.

On Sundays, morning and evening and on Wednesday evening, Preacher Gordon belted out the voice of God. He did not write out the sermons, (he was not good at writing) he let God use him as an instrument of voice. "Hallelujah!" "Amen, brother."

The log walls vibrated with God's voice. Then the Holy Spirit entered the congregation. The logs vibrated with spirit. The congregation cried quietly. Then the call was made to the alter.

"Jesus is here to help you. He will walk you to the alter." Preacher said in his tender voice.

The choir sang, "Are you washed, are you washed? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?"

I was eleven years old.

Mother was by my side. We were visiting, staying with Aunt Laura, on her farm. Victoria was conspicuous, out of place in her up to the minute stylish clothes over swelling belly, among the people of her roots. Daddy was on a secret Air Force mission. It was before the Old Hotel. Carol, Kathi, and I clustered around Mother.

Then the choir sang, "Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War." People were kneeling at the alter, tears flowed. "Forward into battle". "Hallelujah!"

I was entered by the Holy Spirit. I was in a deep trance. I lost consciousness of the surroundings. I was in the channel of No Words. My neuron jell directed my feet up to the alter where I succumbed to wracking tears. I cried for hours. I sobbed on the alter. Flowing an ocean, I was gently walked to the car. Aunt Kat took me home with her that night. This was before the Old Hotel, she lived in a shack with only clap board and tin to repel the elements. She had a deep front porch with rockers and a utility back porch.

I cried in her arms like a dejected baby. I would forever be her baby. Eleven years old and sitting on my Aunt's lap! But my consciousness was still not connected to the commonly agreed upon channel, called "reality". Gradually, with musical voice she soothed me. I went into deep sleep.

The next day Sister Carol, Cousin Banty and I went to the watermelon patch. Banty thumped the melons with middle finger until she found one that was ripe. She broke it open by banging it on the ground. It tasted red and sweet and sun warmed. Thirst quencher.

We walked towards the piney woods. There was an ant bed, about 12 inches high, between the watermelon rows. Carol kicked it. Ants scattered, looking anxious. Carol began crushing the ants with her thumb. Banty joined in, giggling.

I had been saved, the night before, in Papa Gordon's little brown church in the wild wood dale. I said, to my genome and age cohorts, "You should not kill ants. They are God's creatures." They laughed at me.

The Old Hotel, part five; I am Confused, Is That a Problem?

I awaken, sticky with sweat. Brain waves slowly pick up pace and I come to beta consciousness. Reality coalesces slowly, through the fog of surreal dreams. My sister, Carol and cousin Banty awakened earlier and have left the shabby room. Some of the clay wads still stick to the ceiling. Others fell to the floor during the night, thuds which punctuated my dreams. The fallen ones lie, like plastic turds around the floored mattress.

I dress in my designated room, #10. Find cold pork and eggs and grits in Aunt Kat's kitchen. Then wander down the front steps to Mama Gordon's room.

Grandmother's room is one of the ones that get cleaned. Aunt Kat is sweeping. "You will always be my pwecious babee," says Aunt Kat and envelops me with a perfumed hug. She wears Avon's 'Ruby Silk" that comes as a cream scent in a spiffy red jar. Kat's face is expertly painted with Avon products, which she sells, she is a walking ad. She wears a blue on blue floral print, cotton shirtwaist dress. Patent leather ballerina flats and matching belt. Her hair is permed, tortured into stylish curls. Silver locks streak the brown curls. Good Christian women do not dye their hair, like hussies. That is just wrong. Wrong even though Aunt Kat doesnt believe that God is as mean as some people say that he is.

"Look, Mama, it is our wuverly babee Jan," Kat hollers in mega decibels to get through to the old lady, Belle Gordon.

Kat looks like my Mother. Strangers recognize Victoria and Katherine as sisters. Same blue-gray eyes, finely wrought bodies, dainty features in perfect oval faces. Both look beautiful and are good Christian women. The difference is that Kat is a sweet soft heart, a Christian saint; and Victoria is a devout Christian soldier, battling evil devil influences daily. God assigned the souls of her four children to Victoria's care and she takes this mandate very seriously indeed. Belts and supple switches are the weapons to drive the devil from her children and make them as pure as white snow. Red whelps on tender bottoms prove her allegiance to the Holy Father.

This sweat dripping, August, 1956, day in the dark heart of Mississippi, Kat is cleaning her ancient Mother's Old Hotel Room. Victoria is in an office across the rail road tracks, typing up a legal brief.

Belle Gordon wears a clean, faded, old fashioned, long cotton dress and a sweater. She is rocking in the Nursing Chair. A low, dark polished wooden chair designed for breast feeding babies. This chair has accompanied her along her wanderings on the path of broken hearts and busted brains.
Belle nursed nine children at her bountiful breast, rocking in that low chair. Actually, eleven children, if you count the two angels who went back to heaven after only a short earthly stay.

Mama Gordon asks me to thread needles for her. She can still hand sew and mend clothing, but she cannot see the eye of the needle. Her hands have a fine tremor. I thread three needles with thread measured by my extended arms. I knot the thread and place the needles in a pincushion home made from bright scraps and stuffed with cotton from the field.

Then my grandmother sits peacefully as I fix her hair. I pull out hair pins. Her white, charcoal streaked hair falls to her waist. It has never been cut. It smells like fertile earth. I brush for one hundred strokes and then, retwist the bun.

She is a heart. A big sweet heart. Her heart has been tempered by pain and sorrow and joy. Preacher Gordon was not an easy person to live with.

The Old Hotel, Part Four

That night the three muffinteers slept in room #116. They had several rooms to choose from in the sparsely populated Old Hotel. Some of the rooms had actual chairs, chests of drawers and beds on frames with sheets that had been changed within less than one year. The girl cousins slept in different rooms on different nights whenever Mother would allow it.

Some nights Mother would punish her bad daughters and make them sleep with her in the designated bedroom. Room #10 at the back of the first floor had three beds for Mother, Hank, Kathi, Carol and Jan. Daddy was away, TDY at a Greenland Air Force Base.

Luckily, Victoria was in a good mood after work and didnt want a crowded bedroom on such a hot night.

Room #116, on the second floor, was furnished with two deflated mattresses thrown on the dusty floor. Banty opened the window, but not even a wisp of air stirred. To the girls it was not a dismal flop room, but a grand chamber of sizzling mystery. They were in the exact same room where Bernice had committed the forbidden act with her boyfriend that very same day. They could not stop giggling.

Back then, sex was a sin. God did not approve of his men and women joining bodies and spirits. God made very strict rules governing sexual intercourse. Only reproduction between a husband and wife was allowed and only because God wanted a bigger flock. It was committed infrequently and quickly with the lights out. Christians were not allowed to think about it to much. It was definitely forbidden to enjoy it. If sex was done improperly then the humans were sent to hell. There in the underground Kingdom of the Devil they would be painfully tortured forever and ever.

Back then, sex was even more treacherous than it is today. Today, you can get diseases, unwanted pregnancy and a broken heart. All bad stuff, but minor glitches, compared to eternal burning fire.

Back then daughters of good Christian families were kept ignorant about the basic facts of reproduction. Girls were especially at risk from the horrible dangers. Good Christian parents structured their daughters with a wall of silence. Some taboos are talked about, children are warned, but the strongest taboos are kept vaulted in an unmentionable vacuum.

God did, however want men and women to multiply. He needed a large population to satisfy his gluttony for abject adoration. Thay is why he programmed humans with a magnetic drive. God did not make mistakes. However, he did realize that he needed to control sex, because it was one of the most empowering things that humans had. Sometimes sex made people happy and that was not good. Happy people tend to get uppity. Also, God had detailed plans for social structure and unregulated sex could play havoc with societal organization.

To assure that his people did not wander from the straight and narrow God invented Church. Certain special men, like Papa Gordon, heard the direct voice of God, they recieved "a calling" to be preachers. After that they could boss a flock around and threaten the lambs into following God's commandments.

Humans were required to go to church at least once a week. Mother dragged us there about three times a week. That is why I know so much about devine rules. What I am telling you is not what I learned in Sunday School. The preachin' teachin' confused me so much, that I had to think about it a lot. I am telling you about the conclusions that I deducted, after many years of working to make logical sense of it all. My hope is that this will help you to straighten out your own thoughts, if you are confused.

God invented SHAME to assist his children on the righteous path to heaven. Heaven is the place with the pearly gates and streets paved with gold. You get a harp and praise God the whole day long, every single day, for eternity. God needs a lot of admiration, I havnt figured out why yet, but am still working on it. Shame is the short chain leash on pleasure.

Papa Gordon, in his prime (when his brain still worked, before the oldtimers disease kicked in) could fill a congregation with such shame over being human that they would get down on their knees and beg the Almighty Father for forgiveness. Papa Gordon spoke the Word of God, he channeled the fearful threats from the Gread Dictator in the sky. He was devinely inspired, direct from the Lord. He still had the power to make me shiver in my Mary Janes.

He raised Victoria with a righteous loathing of her womanly flesh, and Mother tried to pass that on to me.

Yes, girls were especially at risk for falling from grace. Their sweet ripening fruit drove men, even preachers, mad from lust. Really, this was a situation that had to nipped in the bud. Budding females must not realize the great power that they had. Holy old adult males hated the persistant lust. Girls were the cause. Sin was their fault. Ever since Eve ate that apple.

To be continued when I get around to it.

The Old Hotel, Part Four

That night the three muffinteers slept in room #116. They had their pick from several rooms in the sparsely populated Old Hotel. Of course they chose 116 that night. The room where the forbidden mysterious activity had taken place.

Back then daughters of certain Christian families were kept ignorant about the basic facts of human reproduction. Back then, sex was an unmentionable sin. God did not approve of men and women connecting their minds and spirits. However, God did want people to multiply. He needed a large population of humans to satisfy his gluttony for abject adoration.

To assure reproduction in the human race he programmed them with an obsessive magnitism to fit their parts together and unite sperm and egg.

The Old Hotel, Part Three

Banty, Carol and I, giggling from sheer animal vitality and sunshine, skip from the porch. Black velvet and cobalt butterflies land on Papa Gordon's pajamas, drying on the line.

At fifteen years old, Banty is way ahead of me in sophistication. She wears a very tight dark skirt. A three inch leather belt cinches her waist, accentuating an hour glass figure. Dark brown, long wavy hair and electric blue eyes. A few pimples. She limps on feet disfigured by the mysterious illness she suffered in her fifth year. The boys are crazy about her. On a chain around her neck hangs the class ring of Bobby, the cutest boy at Weir Middle School.

Carefully, we climb between the barbed wires of the fence. We run across the field, screaming and sweating, and startling the cows just for the fun of seeing them run away. We dodge cow patties. On one pile of shit, a covey of butterflies dance. I think that they are eating cow shit. I am disillusioned, how can such elegant creatures eat shit? The field crossed, we climb through the fence, and out onto the baking red clay road. A little way down the road, we come to the forest path.

I feel a frisson, both apprehension and excitement just before we enter the forest.

It is cool in the deep shade. Virgin pine trees. Thick trunks reach straight and tall to the sky. High overhead, a canopy of blue green needles, underfoot, a carpet of red brown needles. We walk quietly, subdued by the forest grandeur. My consciousness switches to the channel of evanescent mist.

The path skirts a sandy bottomed, clear amber creek. Then, we arrive at the swimming hole. Because of the depth of the water, it is black. Blue sky, white cloud and green pine reflections flutter on the surface. I am transfixed by the liquid color play.

Faintly I hear Banty, "Jan, Jan".

Carol says, "She cant hear you. She is unconscious, nothing in her head but air". They laugh at me and I am saddened with embarrassment.

We sit on the pine needle carpet and light cigarettes with wooden kitchen matches. Banty shares her cigarette with me. "Here," she says, "smoke some of this coffin nail." She fingers the ring hanging from the chain. We swat mosquitoes.

"I saw Bobby talking to that prissy ass Sally Jo. I told him that if he does that again I will break up with him."

Carol says, "I saw him talking to Irene, the slut".

Banty says, "I am gonna kick his ass. She eats cock for breakfast."

I know that they are talking about sex, but I do not understand the mechanics. Burning curiosity gnaws at me, but I do not ask questions. Questions would expose my ignorance, and that, would be just too embarrassing.

"Why did Bernice pay you?" I ask.

"She gave us a dime and cigarettes, not to tell you, Miss Vacuum Head." says Carol in a self satisfied, mocking tone.

"Please tell!" I beg.

"She didnt want us to tell, that her boy friend came to the hotel," Banty's voice glitters with excitement. "We were suppose to watch the kids, while they 'did it' in room 116." She pokes me with her elbow, "He put his dick in her pussy and pumped up and down". She laughs with gusto. I am satisfied to put some of the sex puzzle pieces together.

"We listened outside the door and heard them moaning and grunting and banging." Carol says, "Ha ha. You missed it, Miss Cloud Head. Miss Stuck Up, nose in the air."

"Woo-hoo" Banty yells. She runs and jumps into the swimming hole, clothes, leather belt, and all. Carol does a butt busting, cannon ball into the water. I ease in the icy water slowly from a shallow edge.

Invigorated, splashing and whooping. The black silk water sparkles. We are shiny birds of youth, and the earth is new.

Walking back to the Old Hotel, on the clay road, a car passes us and kicks up dust. Red clay mud clings to our wet clothes.

The Old Hotel, Dog Days of August

She silly sally down the hall way. Skip and dip. Stutter, flutter. Kicking up little dust clouds. Aroma of human effluvium.

As I leave the sunny corner room, Aunt Kat is efficiently dressing Papa Gordon in his pajamas. Her soothing voice calms him down. Changes his mode from Hell Fire to quiet rest.

I am wearing pedal pushers and a polka dot blouse sewn for me by Mama. The hall is long, gray, receives sunlight only at the two ends. My mind slides to its channel of choice. A dreamy, wordless place. I drift past Aunt Kat and Uncle Jack's rooms, numbers 113 and 115. Aunt Tilly and Boo Ray live in room 117. On the right are a string of desolate vacant rooms. I pass dining room and kitchen, and at the end of the hall, the communal bathrooms. Then, down the outdoor back stairs and through the screen door to the first floor hall. Feet navigating, mind in clouds. The August southern heat is oppressive.

I enter my family bedroom. Hank is driving his cars over Peggy's dolls. Bernice is tuning the radio. Hank grins and joggles to me with arms reaching open. "Sissy, Sissy, read book. Read Buzz Bunny."

Bernice is the babysitter for Hank while Mama works. Mama is secretary a few hours a week to the only lawyer in Weir, Mississippi. Bernice has a cushioned body, a long dirty blond pony tail, pale blue eyes. She is wearing a flowered blouse and a faded green gathered skirt. She sits in a straight wooden chair and turns the imitation ivory dial of the brown plastic radio. The radio emits weird zippy sounds as she scrolls the stations.

Three year old Peggy lurches to Bernice, squeezes between her legs, and tugs at her mother's blouse. Bernice stops turning the radio dial when she finds Elvis singing, "Warden threw a party in the county jail." Her soft shoulders see saw to the rhythm of the music. Peggy is trying to get under her mother's blouse. Bernice lifts her blouse and pops out her huge milk melon. Peggy slurps at the pap while standing on sturdy plump legs.

"Sissy, Sissy, read Buzz Bunny!" I pick up Hank and the book and carry them to the back porch. Sit in big wooden rocking chair. Snuggle three year old boy chub. Read, "Hoppity, hoppity." The over worked electric washing machine spins with death rattle noise. Beside it is an old wringer washer.

The back porch looks onto a big cow field. In the near distance are lines of scraggly drying laundry with butterflies swarming about. In the far distance is a thick woods, veined with a creek. One area of the creek has been dynamited to create a deep black swimming hole.

Hank and I doze dreamily, gently rocking. I dream that I am trying to water a flower bed, but the hose is stopped up. I shake and squeeze the hose, but water only dribbles out.

Noise of flip flops and screen door slam. "Where have yall been?" I ask Carol and Banty as they jiggle from the hallway to the porch.

My sister Carol is eleven, two years my junior. To my humiliation, she is more developed than I am. She always wins our rivalry fights because she is meaner and stronger willed than I am. Her bangs frizz over her high forehead and tweezed eyebrows. Mischief jets from her blue gray eyes. The sides of her hair fall obediently straight to poufs of tight curls just below her ears. She wears a blue boat neck blouse and a gathered skirt sewn from cotton by Mother. She eats a Snickers bar. "We wont tell you!" she snickers.

"Bernice paid us a dime to keep our mouths shut," Banty says. "And," she says waving two cigarettes, "look what else she gave us." I beg to know why they were paid, but they will not tell me. Banty says that we should go to the swim hole to smoke.

I carry the sleeping Hank to the double bed where Peggy is napping. Bernice is singing along with the radio. "One for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready, now go cat go."She tosses her pony tail in rhythm.

Dozo saunters in. Sniffs. Lies down beside the bed and immediately falls asleep.

The Old Hotel

I need a plan, man. I need a blog plan. I need focus. I need a cohesive concept. I need to win the lottery. I need a face lift. I need to get my shit together.

I plan to write some biographical material and I plan to post pictures. Dear reader, please dont expect it to be organized or reasonable. I have "art brain", that is my excuse. The pictures will not match the written material. Life is too short. And, life is too complicated to tie into a neat bundle.

Specifically, as to the writing, I plan to write about a period of time in my life when I lived at the Old Hotel. Coexisted there with my mother, two sisters, little brother and a whole caboodle load of extended, busted brained, family. I was 13 years old and the year was 1956.

Naturally, I plan to take poetic license with the facts. Thank the Dear Goddess for spell check. You will not be pummeled with too much creative spelling.

I plan to write as I go along, completing one or two short episodes a week. More if time permits.

This morning I drafted the first episode, handwritten, on old fashioned paper.

Please indulge me my corny alliteration.

I tried to unify the time frame but it kept getting disorganized. So, am going with the mixed past tense and present tense. Whatever.

THE OLD HOTEL

The Old Hotel was dim, dusty and delightful. The pea sized town of Weir, Mississippi, was weary, wan and wonderful.

After the heyday of train travel, the hotel fell from relevance. It no longer made sense. In the time when travelers tumbled about in automobiles, capillaries of commerce switched from rail to highways. The Old Hotel was bypassed.

For a few years the hotel was not occupied. Then, Aunt Kat bought the decaying heap for a song.


Papa Gordon's room was to the right of the hallway that led to the second story balcony. Just past Aunt Kat's and Unkle Jack's rooms. The old man's room had more light. On a corner, it had twice as many windows to coax sunlight.

Just as I walked through the open door, Papa Gordon shouted, "You are going to Hell!". He was sitting on the end of his bed. Scrawny knob knees angled over the foot board. "Your sinful ways on the wide and crooked are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord." A gnarled finger, like a shot gun, hurled shame on my sinful soul. Then he slammed his fist on the ragged King James Version of the Bible. "Repent", he bellowed.

The air marinated in an intimate odor of chamber pot under the bed. His voice boomed from a ribbed chest thinly drapped with crepe skin. I did not look at his, 'you know what'. My small voice claimed only a sliver of space in the righteous airwaves. "Papa Gordon," I murmured, "let me help you get dressed".

"REPENT!", the vindictive voice almost knocked me down. "REPENT! The way of the cross is the only way. Jesus is preparing a mansion for you in heaven."

Repentance, curiosity and revulsion clatter in my brain. Curiosity is winning. Well, admittedly, I did get a quick, indelible, view of his "thingie" before editing my eyes. Now curiosity is urging a better look at the shriveled pod. Just as I have my courage worked up Dozo walks in. She is dutifully making her rounds.

Dozo assesses the situation like a professional nurse. She sniffs my quandary. Things are not right. She pads out the door.

I drift to the front facing window. Beyond the balcony, across the railroad tracks I see the Saturday, go to to town, country folks. They shoulder bags of feed and seed from the farm store. They buy flour and sugar in bulk from the grocer.

Saturdays are lively days in Weir. Old fashioned subsistance farmers make a weekly outing to pick up supplies and glad mouth. There are two horses harnessed to wooden wagons tied up by the tracks.

Weir, this small dot of earth, is off current, mired in time warp quicksand. Even in 1956, a few farmers still drive horse and wagon to town. They own a few fertile acres. They raise luscious vegetables, fruit, chickens, milk cow and beef cow. They raise abundant barefoot families. The children beg to go on the Saturday trip for supplies. Town is exciting. There are new things and strange people to see.

Deep in the back woods they live in their own little bubble of self sufficiency.


Beyond the balcony, on the near side of the tracks, I am captivated, as I watch a gang of brawny teen boys playing a game of penny toss. My mind disconnects, drifts to the place of nameless longing. The hell fire and damnation fades to quiet static. Standing in my Mary Janes, my body sways gently.

Dozo returns her head held high with self importance. She is followed by Aunt Kat. Dozo has summoned Aunt Kat to handle the naked preacher situation.

I am pulled back to the sunlit room. "Jan", Aunt Kat orders, "go see about your little brother." She is trying to protect my girlish innocence by sending me away. Ive seen my brothers perky pee pee and my grand father's limp ding dong. My protected, guarded innocence is still mostly intact. Aunt Kat picks up Papa Gorden's pajamas from off of the floor.

I wander down the long hall way to the back stairs.