Dear Readers,
Today, I'm adding a new component to the blog. Story Time! That's right. I'm going to invite other authors to publish their short fiction and poetry on the blog from time to time. If you are an author or poet (wait, aren't they the same thing?), and you would like to have your work featured, just shoot me an email, message me on FB, or leave me a comment here. Now, without further adieu, check out this moving little story by my real-life friend, Jerry Rogers a/k/a Dal Hart.
Tall Grass
For
no good reason, other than we lived in Texas, our December weather was misbehaving
like a petulant child: bringing rain we didn’t need and yet none when we needed
it the most. Still little hampered us kids from spending afternoons on an acre
of land behind our rural house. A patch of land where the tall grass grew unchecked year-round. We made it a place that provided
an ideal hideaway for my little sister, best friend Wesley, and me. My uncle
Cecil always took delight in describing the nearly 6-foot Johnson grass as, “Higher
than an elephant’s eye.”
Inside
our grassy haven, our young imaginations kept us busy with games of hide and seek,
war, and jungle safari. On the other hand, the tall grass had a menacing side during a full moon. It was there our
parents prohibited us from playing in the field after sundown.
Saturdays,
Wesley and I spent lazy days lying on the trampled grass. In our white tee
shirts, jeans and bare feet, we spent hours talking about school, sports, friends
and the latest double feature matinee. One afternoon, it was near lunch when our
attention was attracted by a slow-moving cluster of black clouds. When the wind
shifted, we began to be pelted with drops of cold rain.
Mama’s voice boomed
across the sound of the slapping grass. “JAKE… SEND WESLEY HOME… GET YOUR SISTER
IN THE HOUSE… NOW!”
She yanked the damp clothes
off the line, scattering wooden clothes pins in all directions. Then she grabbed
the laundry basket under one arm and with the other, herded my sister and I inside.
There we stuffed towels around the window sills and door frames to keep out the
advancing hail and rain. After an hour or so the winds and rains ceased,
leaving the air eerily still, except for claps of distant thunder and remnants
of pea sized hail.
Through the kitchen
window we watched the storm head east, just as Daddy pulled his truck up the
gravel drive and parked under our frame carport. Crawling out of the cab, he cupped
his hands and hollered, “Everybody safe?”
“We are now." Mama shouted,
as she pushed open the back-screen door.
Daddy walked around the
house inspecting the windows, trees, and roof for any damage. Pushing back
his cap, he said, “There’s nothing major, just a lot of cleaning up ahead.” However,
Mama distracted by the storm’s destination, watched as a funnel cloud dropped
from the clouds, and head toward the Dallas skyline.
Headed to the house, we
were stopped in our tracks by the sound of a yapping puppy. We turned to see a
rain-drenched white puppy with large brown spots and muddy paws emerge from the
tall grass.
Daddy picked him up.
Then we crowded around, giggling and stroking our new arrival.
“Can we keep him…huh?” We
pleaded.
He handed the pup to
Mama. Lifting him high in the air, she remarked, “He has no collar.”
Daddy smiled and
shrugged his approval.
“What’d we call him?” Daddy
asked. We called out our favorite names, until Daddy held up his hand. “Since he
survived the storm, what say we call him Stormy.” We clapped our hands in total
agreement.
Us kids played with Stormy, until Mama bathed him on the
back porch. Daddy lit the gas heater in the living room, to knock the chill off
inside. Soon, we enjoyed a supper of hot homemade soup and cornbread. Mama poured
a bowl of milk for our new puppy, while I made him a bed from a cardboard box.
Sis covered him with a thick worn-out bath towel. After bedding him down, sis
and I took turns bathing in a galvanized tub, that was heated on the kitchen stove.
Squeaky clean, we slipped on our pajamas and raced for our cozy beds.
The next morning, I was awakened by the warm breath and wet
nose of our new boarder. Stormy and I wrestled
in bed, until we heard Wesley’s whistle. I dressed in a hurry and ran, with
Stormy in tow, to meet him at the bar ditch.
After breakfast, we helped Daddy load the pick-up with
debris, roofing shingles, broken tree limbs and the like. By mid-afternoon the
sun had dried the tall grass enough to
hide two high-spirited boys and a frisky pup. Before supper, I made a place for Stormy under
our pier and beam house. The floor sat off the ground enough for his bed on the
sandy ground. Sis brought him a tin plate filled with table scraps and slid it under
the floor. We laughed watching him devour everything on his plate. That pup could
and would eat anything.
In the Spring, I slept with my bedroom windows open, to
catch a cool cross breeze, cooler than our window swamp cooler and less noisy. One
uncomfortable night, I dreamed Stormy had wandered in the tall grass alone and was in danger. I awoke with a strong sense of
foreboding. peering through my window.
I called to Stormy, pacing near the tall
grass, in the light of a full moon. He growled at me. When I called him a
second time, he fell silent and trotted to my window. He whimpered gazing at the
full moon. Sounding a full-throated howl, he crawled under the house.
When summer arrived, the tall
grass had already reached its full height of six feet. Tall enough for us to
hide from our parents and giggling neighbor girls. Stormy loved the carefree adventures
of the tall grass, where he joined us
every day. The only event that could move him was the sound of Daddy’s pick-up
pulling into our drive. Stormy would sprint to the carport and dance about until
Daddy slid out of the truck and joined us for a while, before supper.
Stormy became Daddy’s shadow, until Labor Day, when Daddy,
known for cooking the best steak in this area, was prepared to grill. His
process was to slather the meat with his homemade sauce, until the smoke billowing
from the grill, turned grey. At that point, a pungent bar-b-que aroma filled
the backyard, hanging in the air like a morning fog.
Mama was busy in the kitchen, making potato salad and banana
pudding. Sis brewed the sweet tea, that would be poured over ice chips into plastic
patriotic cups. Outside I was busy setting up the portable table under the
chinaberry tree, while keeping insects at bay.
Our anticipation peaked, when Daddy head to the kitchen for
a large serving plate and tongs. Gathering his tools, he glanced out the window
and released a painful howl. Outside, we watched in horror as Stormy pulled our
last steak from the grill and disappeared under the house. Daddy grabbed, the
first weapon in the kitchen, a broom. He bolted outside, yelling like a
crazed-man, waving the broom in the air. He even tried to crawl partially under
the house, attempting to snatch the beef from the jaws of this hungry mongrel. Fortunately,
he failed in his unsanitary attempt. Dejected, he returned to the kitchen, where
Mama was busy cooking hot dogs, pork n’ beans, and potato salad. We ate our
supper in joyless silence and saved our pudding for later.
Things
returned to normal, as Daddy mended his relationship with Stormy. On the other hand,
my penitence was to stand watch, whenever we grilled outdoors.
September
brought the first day of school. Stormy walked us to the bar ditch, a trench dividing
our yard, from the asphalt street and sat with his head cocked to one side. He
was watching us leave for the day. Late in the afternoon, we found Stormy sitting
close to where we left him that morning. Following us to the house, he waited at the kitchen
door, as we grabbed a handful of warm peanut butter cookies, on our way to the tall grass. Today, at our special spot
in the bent grass, Wesley and I were busy making plans for junior high, next
year. Little did we know, the impact tomorrow morning would make, in shaping
our plans.
The
next morning about dawn, I was awakened by the sounds of a whimpering, growling
Stormy. I crawled out of bed and hurried to the kitchen window that faced the
garage. I watched Daddy pull a torn and bleeding Stormy from the tall grass. He tied him to the corner of
the carport, and hurried to his pick-up. He reached under the seat and pullout
his hunting rifle. I pushed against the window and whimpered, “No, Daddy…
please don’t.”
Stormy tried to stand, but collapsed. Daddy knelt beside him
and spoke in a calm, low voice as he loaded a round in the rifle chamber. Then Daddy
stood, and took two steps back, as he released the safety. Raising the rifle to
his shoulder, he aimed and squeezed the trigger. The shot shattered the quiet morning,
and a numbness coursed, like electricity through my body. Daddy engaged the safety
and slid the rifle back into the truck. He doubled over with his hands on his
knees, as if his breath had been knocked out of him. Then he lifted the
lifeless body of Stormy and carried him back to where he had entered our lives…
the tall grass.
My ears were still ringing when I struggled to my room and sat
on the edge of the bed. My little sister eased beside me and whispered, “I
heard a rifle-shot.”
"Daddy
fired at a noise in the tall grass, that’s
all," I mumbled. "Now get
back to bed."
I joined Mama in the kitchen and watched as she fixed our lunches
for school. My mind kept replaying the horror of what I had just seen as I sat
at the chrome kitchen table trying to work up the nerve to ask Mama, “Why?”
Mama closed the door to the fridge and sat next to me, where
she held my hands.
Tell me, it was all just a nightmare.” I pleaded.
“About dawn, Stormy heard or smelled
something or someone in the tall grass.
We believe he charged in the grass to protect us.”
“But, what made Daddy shoot him?”
“In the attack, Stormy had his flesh ripped to the bone,
exposing him to heavy blood loss and possible exposure to rabies. Stormy, was near
death and in horrible pain from his wounds, when your Dad put him down.”
“Couldn’t
he call a vet or somebody first?”
“Your
Dad did the only thing, the humane thing. Jake you’re young and can’t possibly understand
such a terrible thing. But, with God’s help, someday you will.”
“I don’t want to understand, someday or any day!”
“Jake, let me fix you some breakfast.”
“No thank-you,” I growled, slamming the backscreen.
I left for school early, hoping to avoid anyone that would
ask about Stormy. Without answers to what happened, school made less sense. Lunch
and recess became a random activity. Even the final bell reminded me that I would
return to a home without Stormy.
I crossed the bar ditch and walked to the backyard, passing
the blood-speckled carport. I entered the
tall grass, totally exhausted. I
rolled up my jacket and made a pillow to rest my head, while I napped restlessly,
near the grave Daddy had dug for Stormy.
When
Daddy pulled into the drive, I listened as he and Mama talked on the grass
line. I heard Mama say, “Jake’s in the back corner of the tall grass, near the grave.”
Finding me at the far corner of the tall grass. Daddy said, “Son, I wish things could have been different.”
“Yes, sir” I muttered, without looking up. “And Daddy,
thanks for burying him.”
He
knelt next to me and said, “Jake, when you’re a man, you’ll encounter other
heart-breaking moments. But, it’s circumstances such as this, that make us
stronger, if we exercise our faith and strength of character.”
“How can I be sure, I have what it takes?”
Detecting the resolve in his eyes, I watched him
pick up a clump of dirt, “Tonight, I’ll call Mr. Kilgore to bring his tractor to
plow under these bitter weeds.”
Gripping his hand filled with dirt, he tossed it
down. “Here we can plant a garden full of life-giving vegetables.”
“JAKE...DINNER’S READY… TELL YOUR DAD!”
“That’s sounds like your Mama.” Daddy joked, “you
coming?”
“In a little bit.”
He smiled and then nodded. Shoving his hands
into his khakis pockets, he headed to the house.
A
swirling breeze shook the tall grass,
creating a sound of approaching footsteps. I began walking in the grass, until
I lost my bearings. I began to zig-zag across the field and stopped at the
sound of a distant whistle. When the sky crackled with lightning, I hit the
ground in a rain filled shoe print. When I stood, a hand reached in and grabbed
my arm and yanked me to the clearing. The hand belonged to none other than my
mud-covered friend, Wesley. Laughing, we began to wrestle on the damp grass, stopping
only to catch our breaths.
“Tomorrow, Mr. Kilgore’s plowing under the tall grass.” I said.
Wesley beamed, “Hey,
that means we’ll have enough dirt clods, to throw for weeks.”
“You bet. I’ll tell the boys at school. Our battle begins
after school…tomorrow.”
The
plans of young boys are as random as the spring weather and today was no
exception. Sitting cross legged in the clearing, our attention was drawn to the
stars overhead, which was soon overcome by a vivid source of light, a full
moon. A brilliance created to cast one final long shadow…over the tall grass.
