Sunday evening, as the sun was setting into the purple and red goodnight that God sends just for me, I found myself watching through the church window and trying to persuade a restless three year old to settle down while the preacher made his final plea to the chance lost soul that had somehow, unexplained, wandered into the sanctuary.
As purple turned to gray the boy jumped, startled, as Brother Duke shouted, " IT'S A MIRACLE!" to emphasize the story of resurrection. - As much as an 80 year old preacher is likely to shout. - At least I think that was what the sermon was.
Suddenly I found myself somewhere else. Somewhere under the Catalpa trees in the home town where I was born. Sitting in a big green metal chair, with my grandpa and my aunt Gussie and Ruth. Women who could have been the models for later TV shows about life in 50's south. The smell of spring clover, lightning bugs, in the field with Mr Smith's milk cow. And the ever present railroad which could interrupt conversation in mid syllable, only to be resumed without notice to all those around after it passed.
Pop, we called him, my grandpa, had planted those trees as a young man to harvest the spring caterpillars for fish bait. A treat so tasty to young stripe that fishing became one cast one kill . Pop didn't fish much anymore. Having sold his gins and retired, his cane poles sat unused in the side shed. The trees became giant umbrellas that spread forty feet each across the wide front yard. He sat most of the time under those trees, smoking a pipe filled with Red Cap tobacco. Except for his daily walk to town this was his occupation since his wife of five decades passed.
The lightening bugs stopped flashing their amber-green message as the train passed. Grandpop said "Mary and I used to sit here and watch watch those." - " striking his pipe against the yellow-brown part of the old green lawn chair to make it clean for a reload.
As he said those words the insects all started to flash in unison. Four or five cycles they dropped to the ground as if a major symphony conductor was in charge. Then, after thirty seconds or so they were back to the random flight-and light cycle of their courting activities. Back to flashing as if nothing had changed. But for me, and for grandpa, I believe in some small way nothing would ever be exactly the same.
"Look" I said. - He paused for a moment, - "miracle" he said calmly, in his manner of one word sentences.
He re-lit the pipe and let his eyes smile a little.
Last night, as the full moon went under a cloud at my home in Cherokee Alabama, a gentle green glow caught my eye from under the magnolia tree. I got up our three year old and went into the yard to have a look. He put his tiny hand out and the bug crawled up his fingers and flashed a light up onto his face in a way that in other circumstances might have been a Halloween display.
"What do you think of a bug that carries a flashlight?" I asked.
He reached up, took hold of my earlobe to pull me close. Whispered in a voice I swear was my my grandfather's..
"It's a miracle"..
"So it is son, so it is."
As purple turned to gray the boy jumped, startled, as Brother Duke shouted, " IT'S A MIRACLE!" to emphasize the story of resurrection. - As much as an 80 year old preacher is likely to shout. - At least I think that was what the sermon was.
Suddenly I found myself somewhere else. Somewhere under the Catalpa trees in the home town where I was born. Sitting in a big green metal chair, with my grandpa and my aunt Gussie and Ruth. Women who could have been the models for later TV shows about life in 50's south. The smell of spring clover, lightning bugs, in the field with Mr Smith's milk cow. And the ever present railroad which could interrupt conversation in mid syllable, only to be resumed without notice to all those around after it passed.
Pop, we called him, my grandpa, had planted those trees as a young man to harvest the spring caterpillars for fish bait. A treat so tasty to young stripe that fishing became one cast one kill . Pop didn't fish much anymore. Having sold his gins and retired, his cane poles sat unused in the side shed. The trees became giant umbrellas that spread forty feet each across the wide front yard. He sat most of the time under those trees, smoking a pipe filled with Red Cap tobacco. Except for his daily walk to town this was his occupation since his wife of five decades passed.
The lightening bugs stopped flashing their amber-green message as the train passed. Grandpop said "Mary and I used to sit here and watch watch those." - " striking his pipe against the yellow-brown part of the old green lawn chair to make it clean for a reload.
As he said those words the insects all started to flash in unison. Four or five cycles they dropped to the ground as if a major symphony conductor was in charge. Then, after thirty seconds or so they were back to the random flight-and light cycle of their courting activities. Back to flashing as if nothing had changed. But for me, and for grandpa, I believe in some small way nothing would ever be exactly the same.
"Look" I said. - He paused for a moment, - "miracle" he said calmly, in his manner of one word sentences.
He re-lit the pipe and let his eyes smile a little.
Last night, as the full moon went under a cloud at my home in Cherokee Alabama, a gentle green glow caught my eye from under the magnolia tree. I got up our three year old and went into the yard to have a look. He put his tiny hand out and the bug crawled up his fingers and flashed a light up onto his face in a way that in other circumstances might have been a Halloween display.
"What do you think of a bug that carries a flashlight?" I asked.
He reached up, took hold of my earlobe to pull me close. Whispered in a voice I swear was my my grandfather's..
"It's a miracle"..
"So it is son, so it is."
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