Slow Reset from Chaos

A LONG WAY FROM FLORENCE…

That is Florence, Mississippi. The younger years.

A white boy born in 1943 from Florence, Mississippi, used to tell me about “holy rollers and Bible thumpers.” He told me how the whip lashed from the hands of an overlooker, sitting on a chair and keeping his eye on the flock as the pastor preached his sermon on a Sunday morning.

“Backwoods country people will whoop your ass if you paid no heed to them preachers!”

Growing up in the sticks, as he called it, wasn’t too bad. I thought, sounds like “Little House on the Prairie meets Gunsmoke,” blended with passion as he continued.

“The Preacher was invited to a home every ‘sundy’ for a meal. When it’s done and over with, ahhh, the women would be chattering to see who made the best meal. Poor Preacher can’t tell a lie. Well, they can’t cause them are preachers, right?”

I just nodded. But in the back of my head, I said, he’s just a man waiting to be fed.

Yes, he went to school, but he always managed to get in trouble.

“That’s what boys do! You need to be ready to fight cuz you never know what’s out there—the neck of the woods you meet. Them bears and snakes hide good, you know. Running fast is good too!”

He turned and looked at me, then chuckled. I used to tell him to stop playing with my head.

When he shared an album his mother put together from what she had, I was touched. My eyes set on the creases, the faded browns and grays. Their clothes. Their hair.

“My grandma was half ‘Injun.’ I forget which tribe, but I think Cherokee. Not sure anymore.”

The Reservation was not for them.

“You know, juz like the poor Jews in camps, some, if not most, were tagged or stamped on the wrist with ink to know who they are.”

Growing up, I suppose a child can see differently. What he understood as a young boy may not be true, but in his sight, it is what it is.

Strong is what he grew into, looking like a stick, but he got strong. All those days of throwing bales of hay on and off the back of the truck. He earned twenty-five cents a day, and that was a lot!

“My sister got a dime to do nothing! But I used to trick her, and she always fell for it. I would tell her that because the nickel was bigger, it was worth more. So she always handed me her dime!”

He grinned, then laughed as if she was sitting next to him.

Then he got in trouble, and here comes the “switch.”

He says, “When your Father yells and says, get the switch! You better get the big one cuz the skinny switch hurts like a mudda and burns like hell. You got to be stupid not to know that!”

Hilarious, as he moved around the living room as if being chased by a switch.

Seasons changed, and the years got rough. His mother got sick. As a teen, nursing his mother, who had tuberculosis, was a feat. He recalls staying up with her, cleaning her up after she threw up blood.

“The blood juz kept coming. I don’t know really what to do. We were poor, we kept her at home. I would help wash her, feed her, and give her medicine.”

It took a little bit, but then she died. She was really sick.

“When I turn seventeen, I’m leaving and won’t look back.”

In 1960, he joined the Navy.

His words were not as clear anymore. No more pieces to hold back. He was ready to tell more, but his lungs couldn’t help him.

Florence was not just a place on a map. It was the beginning of him, the dust on his shoes, the ache in his bones, the humor in his mouth, and the hurt he carried without always naming it.

I listened the best I could, so I could tell more of what he left behind. In due time, they’ll come to mind and onto words.