But I gotta say that I love it when people ask me where I’m from.  ”Arab,” I say.  Of course I pronounce it appropriately. Not like /ˈarəb/ as in “Arab Muslim.” Most of us were Baptist or Methodist.  But /āˈrab/ as in “a rab-id coon bit my dog and now I have to shoot ‘im.”  There’s always an odd silence that follows.  Once I savor that moment, I continue.  ”It’s a little town just south of Huntsville.”  At this, I almost always get one of two responses.

Some just shake their heads.  But most – and I do mean most – will say, “Oh, sure. I know Arab.”  How so many people have come to be connected to Arab is beyond me.  Sometimes they have relatives there.  Sometimes they recall having sold such-and-such to so-and-so (who is usually related to someone in the first group).  Regardless, it’s one of those freaky rules of nature, like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.  Almost anyone can be traced back to Arab in six steps or less.

Don’t get me wrong.  Arab is not without its famous events and people.  For starters, there’s the annual Poke Salat Festival.  But perhaps even more noteworthy is the fact that  the short list of hometown successes (according to Wikipedia) includes actress Monica Potter (Along Came a Spider et al). I should note that I find no other evidence of this anywhere online. But regardless, she  joins my friend Jill King (Country singer and songwriter) as the only two mentions.

I am predictably NOT on the list.  Apparently they don’t consider winning the University of North Alabama “Ugly Walk” Competition worthy of recognition.  Well, I’m not bitter.  But I would also like to point out that I was the star of the brief-but-popular morning radio segment “Breakfast with Brandon” on AM 1380 – WRAB (Your Friend and Neighbor).  That listening audience spanned from Joppa to Scant City. So it was a pretty big deal.

Regarding the name, (and this could just be the product of myth – but one which also eventually found its way to Wikipedia) I’ve always understood it to have come from little more than a clerical error.  The city’s founder was also it’s first postmaster, Stephen Tuttle Thompson. His son’s name was Arad.  Yes, that’s A-R-A-D.  When the city decided to incorporate in 1882, three options were given for the name: Ink, Bird, and Arad.  Apparantly, we went with Arad, but a tragic typo in the process of incorporation deemed us forever . . . Arab.

I’m glad they went with Arad.  If one of the other names had been chosen and misspelled, I might have ended up being from Jnk. I can only guess how we would have pronounced that one.  Or we might have been known as Bord, which was what most of us were anyway growing up in that town.

Make no mistake.  Arab is, and forever will be, at the very top of my list of favorite places to grow up – and that’s not just  because it’s the only place I grew up. I love that city.  Ask any one of those 8,000 7.500 people, and they’ll have their own stories, their own history, their own notable people, places, and things.

Got a good Arab story? Click “Read More” and post it below.  My friend Jackie works for Otelco, so I know they have internet now.

Well, meet Purvis, the guy who’s name says it all.

What’s In A Name

This place is pretty well packed tonight.  The lights are low, and the music is loud, which is good.  Loud music means less talking. Talking is bad, because it requires introductions.  And introductions mean I have to say it.  “Hi, my name is Purvis.”

Yep, Purvis.  I know what you’re thinking. “What kind of name is that?”  I know, right?  The first thing people use to size you up, the way they remember you, the key to the very door into your soul, and my parents choose Purvis. Really?

I guess I could understand it if I were named for some legendary ancestor like a General Purvis Augustus, leader of Allied Forces on some beach in Normandy.  Or maybe a Reverend Purvis Leonidas, fearless missionary taking God to naked natives up and down the Amazon.  But alas, there are no such heroes in my family tree.

I used to wonder if maybe I was named for that FBI guy who nabbed Dillinger.  Turns out Purvis was actually the name of the gardener who worked for my grandmother.  He sculpted topiaries of Bible characters.  Apparently, his juniper Jesus was so lifelike that people would come from miles around to pray to it.  And here I am, a testament to his horticultural moxy.

Hey, there’s that group of girls from HR down the hall.  They already know my name, I think.  I could just skip the whole introduction part.  Oh wait.  There’s those guys from Sales.  OK, never mind.  I’ll let them have a chance. They probably all have really cool names anyway.  Some of them probably even have great nicknames too.  I always envied guys with great nicknames.  My friend Nathan Canasta played football.  His number was 50.  So “Five Oh” became his name for the rest of high school.  Richard Barefoot was Native American, the only Native American we knew.  So we called him “Chief.”

So why couldn’t I get one of those names? I was cool. Right?  I knew things.  I did stuff.  But nothing ever stuck.  I used to write names on my notebooks to try them out.  I wrote “Big Show” and then “Full House,” but I’m just over five feet tall and 120 pounds with my Sunday shoes on.  I also considered “Lefty” and “John Deere,” but I’m right handed, and I’ve never actually seen a tractor in real life.  In the end, I’m just a tragically vanilla, homogeneous human being with absolutely no distinguishing characteristics save one . . . the name “Purvis.”

Look who just sat down at the other end of the bar.  That’s the girl I saw last week, the one with the curly hair.  I can’t tell in here, but I think she might be hot.  Then again, it’s really dark.  I might chance it and walk over.  But what would I say?

“Excuse me, would you like some nuts?”  No, that won’t work.

“From over there you looked pretty, so I just wanted to come over and make sure you weren’t really ugly close up.”  No, better let that one go too.

If I only had a name like Fred or Ralph or something.  Then I could just say “Hi, I’m Fred or Ralph or something.”

I guess I could use my middle name, Arthur.  Or maybe just Art.  But then again, art is what you hang on a wall or make in preschool with macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. And I certainly can’t shorten my first name.  “Purv.”  Nope, I don’t think so. One time I considered combining a short version of my first and middle names.  But then I thought it through. “Purv Art.” Are you kidding me? Mom, Dad, how much do you hate me?

“What’ll it be tonight, kid?” That’s the bartender. I think his name is Stan, or maybe Dan.

“O’Dules.”

“Right.”

Dan’s a nice guy.  He works a lot.  Always here when I come in.

“Hey Dan, you got a nickname?”

“Yeah. It’s Stan.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Hey, when did Jackson come in?  “Hey! Jackson, my man! What’s up?  Huh?  Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, I’ll just be over here.  Keep it real, man.”

Jackson runs the sandwich cart on the corner by the office.  Now Jackson, that’s a real name.  Like “action,” only Jackson. That guy’s gonna go places with a name like that.

But not me.  I’m just gonna sit here at this bar and watch all these well-named individuals go about their happy lives while I waste away in the intoxicating wash of Near Beer.  Just me, the Purv-meister.  The Purvinator.  Potent.  Powerful.  Purvilicious.

I’ve got to get a new name.

Yet despite the flashy reenactments and deep-voiced cinematic narration, there’s still no substitute for first-hand experience.  My children learned this on a recent family trip to Logan Jr. High School, the historic institution where my wife attended kindergarten, first, and second grades.  I should immediately point out that my wife is in no way historic.  The school, however, is.  In fact, it’s not even a working school now, but rather a community center safely in the hands of local preservationists.

Logan Jr. High School is an unassuming, ancient structure with tan rock walls and hardwood floors that bare witness to years of young feet finding their way through life. Thanks to the afore-mentioned preservationists, almost every detail of this facility is still in tact, right down to the trophies displayed proudly in glass cases along the main hallway.  Fading class photos chronicle a legacy of neatly posed children sitting in ordered rows of desks. Of the few classrooms, most are large and designed to accommodate more than one class at a time. According to my wife, her second grade classroom and its teacher were shared by an entire other grade – at the same time.

The large rooms still have all the trappings, including the manual pencil sharpeners and chalkboards of solid and dashed parallel lines.  But perhaps the most intriguing fixtures are the small hallways hidden behind each of the classrooms.  These narrow spaces, called cloak rooms, are lined with wall hooks and low shelves.  Designed for quick one-way traffic, cloak rooms facilitated the in and out rush of children as they hurried to beat the bell or were saved by it.  It’s not so odd, even now, to find an area of a classroom devoted to coats and books.  But this space was different.  It’s placement, it’s design, it’s feel were all oddly reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie.

I’ll spare you the true historical facts surrounding the school.  Suffice to say that it housed more than one generation of the local community.  Even older family members touring with us remarked several times how much smaller things were than they had remembered as a child.

As we strolled through the dark halls (apparently the preservationists are also energy conservationists), my wife began to laugh.  She told our girls about a particular morning when she decided NOT to go gentle into that good school.  After being dropped off, she cried and kicked and screamed and employed all sorts of unorthodox diplomacy.  Her teacher, unyielding, tightened her grip and hauled her into the school.  My wife’s subsequent protests turned to kicking which resulted in the unfortunate flight of one of her shoes.  The flight ended when the shoe struck the principle in the forehead.

As she laughed, she told us that neither she, nor her teacher, nor the principle were laughing at the time.

She could have shared that story sitting in our living room.  But now my kids have touched and smelled and felt what it was like for their mother to be a kid in school.  They’ve walked those halls, seen those pictures, and heard those stories, even as they stood in the very spot where that history was made.

And so, on a Sunday afternoon, in a little town from which we get the name of our third child, our family gained a true understanding of, and perhaps even an appreciation for, one episode of The Abbotts: The Story of Us.

 ”Yes, ma’am.” 

“How many years is a person when they start to get old?”  I glance at her in the rear view mirror.  Her posture is perfect as she sits atop the last car seat she’ll ever need.  Her head is tilted inquisitively.  Loose strands of angel hair dance in front of her face, glowing in the afternoon sun.  My last little girl is growing up so fast.  She smiles, awaiting an answer to her question.

“Well, it depends,” I offer. “Some people get old very early.  Others really never seem to get old.  I guess it just depends on the person.”

She considered this for a moment.  I am proud of my response.  Not too much information, but enough to answer the question accurately.  It is a secret aspiration of mine that my kids will one day look back and reflect on the great wisdom of their father.  I bask in visions of the three of them as adults sharing Thanksgiving coffee around the family table, marveling at how good ole’ Dad could take even the most complex of subjects and put them in terms that even a child could understand.

“Dad?” RileyGrace interrupts my delusions of grandeur.

“Yes, honey.”

“How many years were you when you got old?”

Clearly I have done my job.

By the end of the semester, I had managed to pass Music History (through much prayer and fasting).  It was instead Speech 101 that presented the biggest challenge.  In the end, it was Dr. Bellows, a walking globe with headlight-sized horn-rims and a hair cut reminiscant of Nicholas from “Eight is Enough” who almost failed me, and in doing so taught me perhaps one of the most important lessons of my young adult life. 

The speech was on the business of song writing.  Being a music business major, material on the subject was plentiful.  The delivery was artful, if I do say so myself.  It had humor.  It had drama.  It earned me a standing ovation.  Excuse me while I move to the head of the class.  That’s right.  State Public Speaking Champion coming through.  Yes, it’s a gift.  No, I’m not sure autographs are appropriate right now.  Perhaps after class.

Now, I’m being silly.  I actually only gave one autograph after class, and that one just basically committed me to bring something salty to the next Band Social.  Shortly thereafter, I made my way to Dr. Bellows, who was seated on his axis at the rear of the room.  I had yet to receive his certain praise, and I swelled at the prospect.  What wonderful words might he use to describe my eloquence, my mastery of the oratory?  Perhaps he would even ask me to teach the class next week while he took some time off for that long overdue visit to the barbershop.

“Mr. Abbott.”  He beckoned me forward.  “Have a seat Mr. Abbott.”  Wow, this was gonna take some time.  I must have been better than I thought.

“Brilliant speech, Mr. Abbott.”

“Thank you, sir.”  I said, waiting, hoping for more. 

“You’re clearly the best speaker in the class.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Man, I love that part.

“I almost hate to fail you on this speech.” 

My mind hit the rewind button.  For a moment, I thought he said “fail.”  No, he must have said, “hail,” as in “hail you as the magnificent speaker you are.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Mr. Abbott.  You can’t BS a BS’er.  Your delivery was wonderful.  But no one cared, because you said nothing.  I actually know less now that I did before I heard you speak.  Your reliance on rhetoric is alarming.”

The gaping whole that was my mouth invited all manner of flying things to enter at will. 

“Next time, Mr. Abbott, I want you to remember one thing.  How you speak will mean nothing unless you actually have something to say.”

I turned 34 the other day. And like my age, real life has descended upon me like Sitting Bull on Custard.  Yet as I reflect upon the sweet chaos that is my world, I have started seeing things I’ve never seen before.  I hear sounds I’ve never heard before.  I feel weights I’ve never felt before.  And from all of this I am learning (thanks to Dr. Bellows) how to say things I’ve never said before.  I have finally stopped obsessing over how I speak.  I have finally started focusing on what I say.

And to my surprise, I really do have something to say.

Altar Ego, an excerpt
(Download the complete story)

“So you’re not going to tell her?” asked Bentley. Vernon was studying himself in the mirror. He pressed the top of his head from different angles, tilting his face from side to side.

“Bentley,” he began, “I’ve thought about it long and hard.” He looked away from the mirror and into the eyes of his co-conspirator. A thick index finger emphasized his point. “She’s stopped me before. But she won’t stop me this time.”

Bentley sighed. “What time does she leave?”

“First thing Friday morning,” said Vernon. “My appointment’s at ten, so I plan on getting her up early and out the door. The sooner she’s out of the way, the better.”

“How long will she be gone?”

“Till sometime on Tuesday, plenty of time.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want her to know?” Bentley pressed. “This is kind of a big step. Do you really think it’s necessary?”

Without answering, Reverend Vernon Vanderwalker returned his attention to the mirror. Not bad for 54. A little beefy around the edges. But that wasn’t what bothered him. His biggest problem, the proverbial “thorn in his side,” was the barren patch of wasteland where his hair used to live. Maybe it was because of age or stress. Maybe it was due to some tragic case of heredity. Either way, Vernon’s head was as slick as a baby’s butt. He thought of the Old Testament, when the sins of the fathers were visited upon the future generations. “What kind of mess did my Daddy get himself into?” he wondered.

The problem had begun innocently enough above his forehead with a mild receding hairline. But over the years, time revealed its dastardly plan as Vernon’s youth eventually eroded to the fuzz on his neck. The process left nothing behind but a badland of desolation that stretched from ear to shining ear, bordered only by a few ghostly threads that simply forgot to die.

“It’s necessary,” he declared.

For years, he had hidden the problem artificially. But he grew tired of the hair by day, gone by night routine. He longed to wash his hair, not dry clean it. He was convinced this was the answer. This was how it had to be. Maybe it was a big step. But it would be worth it, especially when his wife came home from her sister’s to find a fresh-headed hunk of burning love to meet her at the door.

“Sarah hates that wig,” Vernon admitted. “And I simply refuse to stand behind the pulpit while those lights make pretty little shapes on the ceiling from the reflections off my head.”

Bentley studied the brochure Vernon had given him. It was full of the clinic’s most recent “success” stories. Flipping it onto the couch, he pondered how best to address his concerns. Finally, he decided on a delicate, tactful approach.

“Vernon, all those guys look like Chia-Pets.”

“Chia what?” Vernon picked up the brochure searching for his answer.

“Chia-Pets. . . . you know those things you. . . well, you add the water and . . .” Bentley saw this was going nowhere. Perhaps it was best to just be supportive. “Oh, never mind. Tell you what. If this is important to you, it’s important to me. So, who’s lined up to preach for you on Sunday?”

Vernon peered over the top of his glasses. Bentley was at least 5 years his senior yet had enough hair to bust a ball cap. As a pastor, Vernon had learned to lean on the counsel of his Deacon Chairman. In the last ten years, the two had seen tremendous growth in the once-dying congregation. With membership at an all-time high, their small country church was now growing at an unprecedented rate. But more than that, Vernon knew Bentley was a straight shooter, a man he could trust.

“What do you mean ‘preach for me’?” Vernon questioned. “What can’t I preach for me?”

Bentley’s worst fears had just been confirmed. He loved his pastor but also felt the need to protect him. For all the wonderful gifts God had given the man, common sense was not among them. It stood to reason in Bentley’s mind that aerating and seeding one’s scalp might require a brief time of recuperation. This thought had clearly not occurred to the man who’s head was soon to become a moving sod farm.

“Now Brother Vernon, I know it’s been a long time since you’ve missed a Sunday at this church.”

“Going on five years now!” Vernon interrupted. “And that’s a streak I don’t intend to break! I don’t care what you say.” Vernon stomped to his desk and sank into the large leather chair. As Bentley stood from the couch, Vernon marveled at how the man could sit for any length of time and not get wrinkles in his pants.

“Preacher,” Bentley began. With the utterance of the word, Vernon felt sick. The last time Bentley Bunch began a sentence with “Preacher,” it was to announce that Burl Simpson’s Billie goat had eaten the blanket right off of a live baby Jesus in the middle of last year’s nativity. This was of course very frightening for Jesus’ mother, who was refilling a small butane heater near the stable. She screamed loud enough to wake half the church cemetery, which was unfortunate because the poor goat was nervous and instantly fell over dead. It was never clear, however, if this death was due to the shock of the scream or from choking on the blanket.

In her haste to save her child, the woman broke the butane pipe’s connection, allowing gas to spill into the air. Of course in all the commotion, no one managed to notice the growing stench of gas, nor did they worry what might happen if that gas came in contact with an errant ember from the nearby bond fire. When the smoke finally cleared, the stable was a pile of ash. Two of the wise men were missing eyebrows, and Burl Simpson was out ten bales of hay, three chickens, and one nervous goat. Whatever Bentley had to say now would no doubt ruin Vernon’s day.

“Preacher, did the doctor explain to you exactly what you might expect from this procedure?”

“Yes,” Vernon shot back. “More hair.”

“No, I mean in terms of recovery.”

Vernon considered this. He seemed to recall the mention of “some general discomfort” and perhaps the need to “take it easy for a few days.” But that was it. At least, this was all he could remember. Bentley retrieved his glasses from the thick brown pouch wedged in his shirt pocket. He put them on and held the brochure at arm’s length before reading aloud:

“Some patients will experience moderate to severe discomfort in the days immediately following this procedure. Scalp will be extremely tender, as well as red and swollen. Patients should plan on limited to no activity for no less than four days.”

Vernon did the math. Not good. In earlier years, he would have run his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “If I can’t preach Sunday, my cover is blown.” Then after a short pause, “No pun intended.” Bentley smiled, but more out of courtesy than amusement. Vernon began to absently flip the onion-skinned corner of a King James with his thumb. Bentley walked to the window and watched a squirrel find a nut.

“Vernon, I just think you’re going to have to fess up on this one. It ain’t like we’ve got two of you.” Suddenly, the flipping fell silent.

“What did you say?” Vernon demanded.

Thinking that hair might not be the only thing his pastor had lost, Bentley repeated louder, “I said you’re gonna have to fess up.”

“No, no. Not that. The other thing.”

“I said we ain’t got two of you.” Bentley turned to face Vernon, who leaped to his feet and began rummaging through his top desk drawer.

“That’s it! Man alive, Bentley Bunch. You beat all! You know that? There are two of me!” Bentley had the sudden urge to pray for the mental health of his pastor. He watched in disbelief as Vernon ripped through books and folders searching for something that was apparently as valuable as the holy grail itself – and just as elusive. “Got it!” Vernon finally thrust a slip of paper above his head in triumph.

“Got what?” Bentley wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

“Bentley, sit back down. There’s something I need to tell you.” After ten minutes of revelation, Bentley Bunch sat stunned.

“Wait just a minute. You’re telling me that you have a twin brother?”

Vernon nodded yes.

“And he lives not three hours from this church?”

Again, yes.

“And you two look just alike?”

“Well, hang on there.” Vernon felt compelled to clarify. “I wouldn’t say that. Virgil doesn’t exactly carry my . . . ” He worked to find the appropriate word. “Presence.”

“But he looks like you?”

“You could say that. Yes.”

“And he sounds like you?”

“When he tries, he can sound more like me than I can.”

“And he’s a preacher too?”

“Unless he’s been excommunicated.”

Bentley took a moment to digest this information. It was all so much so fast. Questions began to spill out of his mouth. “But how come we’ve never seen him? How come we didn’t even know he existed? You’ve been here ten years, and you’ve never mentioned a twin brother?”

Vernon knew this wouldn’t be easy to explain. There was no great reason why he never mentioned his brother. It just never came up.

“Virgil is . . . ” Again, Vernon thought carefully about how best to describe his twin. “Virgil is just different. He and I have never been what you might call close.”

Bentley asked the next obvious question. “So what makes you think he’ll even come, then?” At this, Vernon seemed to drift back to some distant memory.

“See, when God handed out self confidence, I’m afraid I got the lion’s share. Poor Virgil was always kind of like a stow-away on the USS Vernon. It’s been like that ever since we were kids. When I played ball, Virgil played ball. When I went to work at Lutrell Hardware, Virgil went to work at Lutrell Hardware. When I became a minister . . .”
Bentley finished the statement. “Virgil became a minister.”

“Exactly.” Vernon snapped his fingers.

“OK. So let’s say he’ll do it. Do you honestly believe he could pretend to be you on Sunday morning and just go back home without anyone knowing?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Think about it, Bentley. Sarah’s gone to her sister’s. The only time I have to be anywhere between Friday and Tuesday is at that pulpit Sunday morning, a good 20 feet from the first pew. If Virgil can still do ‘me’ like he used to, most folks will never suspect a thing.”

“I don’t know, Vernon. This all just sounds like a bad idea to me.” In reality, it was undoubtedly the dumbest idea Bentley had ever heard.

“Oh, hogwash, Bentley! It’ll work. I’ll write the sermon. Virgil will preach it. It’s fool proof.”

The phrase “famous last words” came to Bentley’s mind. But in the end, he agreed to be a part of the “fool proof” plan, if for no other reason than out of morbid curiosity.

For more, download the complete story . . .

To my friends who may find this story less than tasteful, my apologies.
To my friend upon who’s experience this story is loosely based, you are my hero.
To other readers (all 6 of you), I hope this story reminds you (as it did me) of the following . . .

We are who we are. And that is that. So loosen up, learn to laugh, and live a little.

Wait Till You Hear This

I was in pain. This I remember well. I also remember the cold vinyl of the chair and the peculiar smell that always seemed to accompany such places. I opened the only periodical left on a nearby table, an out-dated issue of “Gastroenterology Digest.” Desperate to occupy my mind, I searched the magazine with the truly tragic title for anything of interest. Unfortunately, the publication’s personality ended just beyond the cover, and so I turned my attention to the other patrons along the walls.

Many of the patients were elderly, a fact I had anticipated. Yet at 40, I was learning that my condition was far less exceptional for men my age than I might have imagined. Far less exceptional perhaps, but no less embarrassing.

I am a discreet individual. Matters of this nature have always been treated in my family with certain furtiveness. Bodies being what they are, some things can’t be helped. However even the most unmentionable of bodily functions should be treated with dignity, if for no other reason than out of respect for those around you. My condition, however, had grown so problematic as to prevent this kind of discretion and thus had begun to hinder not only my physical, but also my social well-being.

My wait was growing more painful by the second, and I was never more relieved (a poor choice of words, I admit) when a nurse called my name. With no small amount of effort, I inched my way toward the door praying for an uneventful journey. I considered it a personal triumph to have made it past the nurse. I considered it a true miracle to have made it to the privacy of the small examining room.

Once secluded, I could stand it no longer. Almost immediately upon the nurse’s departure and the subsequent closing of the door, I relaxed my body and allowed my condition to fill the silent room. The physical relief was second only to the knowledge that I was saved from the embarrassment of an audience.

“Good one,” a voice boomed from behind. I whipped around to discover a doctor emerging from a previously concealed supply closet. I was instantly horrified, a fact which my face apparently made no secret.

“Oh, relax,” the doctor said. “You think you’re the only man to ever have gas?”

His manner was disconcertingly familiar. I would not have thought a topic as sensitive as this would have been treated with such informality, especially by a physician. This man, however, was unlike any physician I had ever patronized.

A tall man with a broad build, his hair was as white as his coat. Yet what stood out was his voice, loud, deliberate, and anything but discreet.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, trust me. Most guys I know would be proud to claim what I just heard.”

I was shocked and tried to protest. But I was not given the opportunity.

“Yes sir. I see it all in my line of work. You know what?”

He did not wait for my answer.

“I have yet to meet a man, regardless of his age, station, or sophistication, who did not laugh at the passing of gas. No sir. Premeditated, accidental, or involuntarily habitual, flatulence is funny. For a man, few truths are more universal or eternal.”

“Doctor, I . . .”

“Levon Daniels!” He stated, as if the mere mentioning of the name proved his point.

“Excuse me?”

“You want to talk about funny, now that was funny!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Absently, he began his examination by listening to my heart.

“Levon and I went to school together down in Tuscaloosa. He and I both worked on the side for this short lanky guy. What was his . . . ? Oh yeah, Strickland. Strickland’s Piano. Anyway, there were four of us that day, including myself and Levon. We had to move one of those big baby grands. Know what I’m talking about? Stick out your tongue.”

I tried to answer yes, but “Ahhh Huuhh” was all I could manage as he looked at my throat.

“Good. Good,” he said and proceeded to search the cabinets. “All we had to do was lift this piano off the dollie and onto this truck bed for the customer, see?”

I nodded, the taste of wood still fresh in my mouth.

“Well, the customer turns out to be Franklin Ledbetter, who was buying the piano for his daughter, Julie.”

He turned back to face me and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret.

“What you gotta know is . . . Levon had been trying to turn Julie’s head since the first day of school. But what you also gotta know is . . . Levon was on the backside of the piano, holding it up like this.”

He spread his arms up and down and bent his knees slightly. The secret part of the story apparently over, he resumed at full volume.

“So Levon couldn’t see squat, right? And what he didn’t know was that Julie was on the other side of that piano waiting for him to notice her.”

Suddenly he shouted. “There they are!”

With more enthusiasm than I would have preferred, he snapped on one of the newly-located rubber gloves.

“Drop your britches for me.”

I braced myself and complied as he continued.

“So, earlier that day, Strickland got in this gift basket from the Methodist Church to thank him for his help with their new organ, see. Darn thing was full of pistachios (the basket, not the organ). So all afternoon, the four of us filled up on pistachios and root beer, which as a physician I can tell you is one toxic combination. Turn and cough now.”

I prayed that he would be silent during this part of the exam, which he was. After a few merciful moments, he disposed of his glove with a dramatic snap.

“Okay. You can get dressed now. So boys will be boys, I guess.”

“Huh,” I said at first, then “oh, yes.”

“Well, we’d been horsing around all afternoon, making the most of our” (he cleared his throat) “potency, so to speak. You with me?”

It was obvious that Levon and his potent pistachios were standing between me and a potential remedy for my condition, so I nodded. I was with him, though a wave of discomfort was building once again.

“Well, like I said, there we were ready to hoist up that baby grand when one of the boys, I think it was Dewayne or, no! It was Ritchie Blackman. Just as we lifted the piano, Ritchie let one slip. And boy did it sing!

“We could hardly hold on for laughing. I mean, it would have been funny anyway, but Julie Ledbetter was standing right there on the other side. And she was horrified.”

My discomfort was building. It was now clear that I would not make it out of the examining room without one more embarrassing episode. Normally, this situation would have been my undoing. Yet, for some reason, I was not undone. I can’t explain why except to say that perhaps the good doctor was right. Maybe there was some primordial part of me that actually found humor in this crude story, even humor in my condition. At that moment, I reconciled myself to the inevitable and just smiled. As if taking my smile as his cue, he continued.

“But the best part was ole Levon, blind as a bat behind that big keyboard and totally oblivious to it all. He cocked his head back and said, ‘Hey! If ya’ll thought that was funny, wait till you hear this one!’”

With that, I gave in to my discomfort and provided the doctor’s story with the most realistic sound effect one could have ever imagined. I’m not sure which of us was most shocked. We locked eyes for just a moment before each erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

If laughter is in fact the best medicine, then I was cured at that very moment. Whatever pretense I brought with me into the examining room that day left with the howls of amusement the good doctor and I shared. Closing my chart, he handed me a slip of paper and shook my hand.

“Good to see you today, friend.” He smiled and slapped me on the back. I returned the gesture with a smile of my own.

As I left, I took one last survey of the waiting area. Another white-haired man stood at the check-in counter with a woman who appeared to be his wife. They looked so pleasant, so comfortable with one another and with themselves. I looked down at the slip of paper the doctor had given me.

The first line was a prescription for some medicine I hoped the pharmacist would be able to decipher. The second line read simply “Remember Levon.” I folded the paper and made my way to the door. From behind I heard the nurse address the couple at the counter.

“Good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.” I paused for a moment; not long, but long enough to hear the words I somehow knew would follow. They came in a woman’s voice, gently, like the upper register of a baby grand piano. “Oh dear, just call me Julie.”

The End

I Remember This Tree

By Brandon Abbott

I remember this tree.

It stood way up all by itself on top of Harper’s Hill, right in the center of Knox Creek.  That tree was huge.  Bigger than life itself.  It had strong, thick branches that started low and spread out wide.  You could climb it, hide up in it, sleep under it.  It was perfect for just about anything.  I reckon everybody in Knox Creek knew that tree.  People’d come and picnic under it, play around it, lean on it.  Yes sir, that was a good ole’ tree.

We used to pass that tree some Saturdays when me and Daddy would drive out to Ule Craddok’s place to do some fishing.  Ule lived just outside Knox Creek, about 10 miles before you get to Station City. He owned what I figured was the biggest catfish pond in the whole dadgum county.  Best part was, he wouldn’t let nobody fish it ‘cept us.

Daddy said Ule fought in the War, which was why he limped around like he did.  To hear Ule tell it, he signed up for a site-seeing tour of Europe and all he brought back was a great big pain in the ass.   But he liked Daddy.  And Daddy liked him. So, ‘bout every other week, me and Daddy would get up early and drive out 71 to see about wettin’ the line with our buddy Ule.

On our way, sometimes we’d stop by at the Kwik Sack to get us some groceries.  I’d always go for an RC Cola and a moon pie (or two if I could get away with it.)  But Daddy, well he’d get him a Pepsi and a pack of salty peanuts.  Now, I don’t know what ever gave him the notion to try this, but Daddy would pour them peanuts down that bottle of Pepsi cola and drink it all down at once.  I always screwed my face up and shivered like it gave me the heebie-jeebies.  It didn’t bother me near like I let on, but it made Daddy laugh, so I did it anyway. 

‘Course, we’d always get a couple of cold drinks for Ule, too.  RC’s mainly.   We used to get him a six pack of beer, ‘cause he likes it so much.  But after a while, Daddy stopped taking it to him.  Said Ule wasn’t that kind of thirsty no more.  Back then I didn’t think much of it.  Just figured Daddy knew best ‘bout what Ule wanted.  Looking back, I reckon it was more about what Ule needed than what he wanted.

To get to the pond, we’d usually take the shortcut at Solley’s crossroads, turn right, and follow the signs for “Troy’s Taxidermy.”  Troy Hollis went to school with Daddy, but I don’t think he ever finished.  I’ll tell you what, though.  You kill somethin’; you take it to Troy.  He’ll mount that sucker so that you’ll swear it was still breathin’.

Daddy always said Troy never got along too well with the living, so it made good sense he’d take up company with the dead, animals or otherwise.  I guess animals just cause Knox Creek already had a funeral home director, and Troy didn’t own a tie or suit or nothing like that anyway.  But folks around here was always catchin’ fish and killin’ deer and drivin’ all the way into Station City to get ‘em stuffed.  So Troy figured he’d sit a sign out on 71 and send people down the shortcut past his place and stop ‘em before they ever get to town.

‘Course, even with all the fine hunting and fishing in Knox Creek, it was still pretty normal to pass by and see Troy sittin’ on the porch doing just about nothing.  Well, nothin’ ‘cept talkin’ to old Beulah, childhood friend, companion, and guard dog.  Troy’d wave.  Beulah’d raise her head just enough to let us all know she wasn’t dead . . . yet.

About the only time she ever moved at all was when Ernie Wells came around.  Ernie started delivering mail on Rural Route 2 about three years back.  And for some reason Daddy and I ain’t never quite figured out, he managed somewhere along the way to make a lifelong enemy of Beulah, the sometimes vicious yet otherwise lethargic guardian of everything  posed and stuffed.

Why, Ernie’d no sooner turn the corner of the dirt driveway what Beulah wouldn’t go near rabid trying to get at him.  Ernie swore Troy trained her that way.  Troy said he’d never bury that dog.  He’d just stuff her and mount her up by the mail box just to see ole’ Ernie piss his pants every time he tried to deliver the Publisher’s clearing house.

I don’t blame Ernie much.  Beulah was a lot like our buddy Ule.  She had people she liked and people she didn’t.  I never got too close to her, but Daddy did alright with her.  Course, Daddy did alright with just about everybody.  Folks looked up to him, I guess.  They was all the time coming to him for help or advice or whatnot.  He kind of had this way of just knowing the right thing to do.

This one time Doc Hollis (no relation to Troy) was off at a medical convention down in Birmingham.  ‘Bout middle of the week, Buck Caldwell’s little girl, Emma, got terrible sick with fever.  Now, I guess folks just can’t hardly think right when they’re all worried about their kids, but that man was flat beside himself with panic when he called the house.  To this day Mr. Caldwell will tell you if it weren’t for Daddy coming over and getting him settled down enough to think and tend to things, it might have been the end for both him and Emma.

I reckon, though, I never will forget this one night.  I woke up and heard crying in the living room.  I got up and crept real quiet down the hall to see what was going on.  I remember Jenny Brewster sitting on our couch with her three kids.  They was, well shoot, they was all younger than me.  I’d say the oldest was probably five or six.  Anyway, Miss Jenny was the one doing all the crying.  Mama was trying to tend to the kids and stay busy in the kitchen. 

Daddy was watching out the window, which I remember thinking was kind of odd.  But I reckon he knew what was coming, cause a few seconds later, he walked out in the yard and closed the door behind him.  I raced around the corner to the window in the hall.  It was dark, and I stubbed my toe.  It hurt like the dickens, but I didn’t make no sound.

When I got to the window, I saw Daddy and Charlie Brewster in the yard.  Charlie had his shotgun with him, and he was mad, stomping around and shoutin’ all crazy like.  Daddy didn’t have no gun with him.  I was a little worried, cause everybody new Charlie had a bad temper.  I knew it cause his own kids was scared of him.  And there he was in my yard, pointin’ a 12 gauge at the front door.  The only thing standing in his way was my Daddy in his pajamas.

We had this yeller porch light on a count of all the bugs.   Daddy must of turned it on so he could see Charlie comin’.  From the window it was makin’ Charlie look like some kind of demon with his pale face all puffed up and his eyes all wild looking.   In the glow of the hazy night air, you could just see the heat and the hate coming right off of him, like he was smolderin’ or something.  Right then and there, I saw just why his kids was so scared of him.

From his shoutin’ I could hear the liquor on his breath.  I thought for just a second he’d pass right out there by the mailbox.  But I was wrong.  Next thing I knew, he had the barrel of that shotgun stickin’ right in my daddy’s face.  I wished like everything I could’ve climbed out that window and helped Daddy.  I thought of Mama and Miss Jenny in the living room with her kids.  Man, I had to do something.

Daddy saw me though, out of the corner of his eye.  It was kind of dark, but I reckon he knew it was me.  I never will forget it.  He didn’t look scared.  He just smiled at me and nodded, like everything was gonna be alright.  So I stood there and watched.

Now, I couldn’t hear what Daddy said to him, but after about ten of the longest seconds of my life, Charlie lowered his gun and his head.  He wasn’t shoutin’ no more.  He just looked toward the front door, spit, and walked away.

I asked Daddy once when we passed the big tree what he said to Charlie that night.  He wouldn’t tell me.  Said that was between him and Charlie.  But just then he slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.  Then he pointed to the tree. 

“Son, you think that tree ever moved?”

I shook my head, trying to understand. I looked at the tree again, standing up there like it was guardin’ the whole town.  The sun was setting behind it, and its shadow was right on top of us.

“No,” I said.  “It ain’t never moved.”

“That’s right.  We’ve had some mighty strong winds here from time to time haven’t we?”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“But that tree’s still standing right where it always was.”

“Yes sir.”  I waited for him to keep going.  He looked back at the tree, then back at me.

“You pick your hill, son,” he said. “You plant yourself there, and you don’t move.  Not for nothing.”

I never will forget that tree.

The End

(c) 2006 Brandon Abbott

But this is so often not the case.  At least not overtly.  I know, I know.  That’s what makes it literature.  You have to think (the voice of my high school English teacher echoes in my head still today).  But you also have to study, which is what I did in the case of Light In August. At first, I thought I knew what it meant, “light in August.”  I recalled a passage in the book when Joe Christmas (while dealing with his decision to kill Miss Burden) could see the street lights from his midnight perch.  Was this about redemption?  Hope?  Was it even still August when this took place in the story?  I could have forced Faulkner into that box of interpretation, I suppose.  But what I couldn’t reconcile was how this seemed so insignificant.  At least not title-significant.  So I reserved judgement till the end of the novel, thinking I might find a clue. 

Now, perhaps I’m showing my cards a bit here.  And perhaps you’re holding the same hand.  Are you like me?  Do you enjoy literature but sometimes tire of having to think so hard just to enjoy a good book?  Do you sometimes question your intellegence because you just didn’t get it and had to refer Cliff and his notes to even understand?

Well welcome to the club. 

I found the answer (like so many times before) at Wikipedia.  As it turns out, the original title for Light in August was actually “Dark House.”  Now THIS makes sense.  The Burden place with its adjacent cabin and family cemetary just outside town where everyone believed Miss Burden to be safe but where she was eventually killed.  So much and so little takes place in and around this house.  “Dark House,” is a great title.  (NB: Apparently, this was also the working title for Absalom, Absalom.) 

So why make the change?  Having never lived (or spent any amount of considerable time) in Mississippi, I was not aware of the strange quality of light one could see during the month of August.  I was also unaware that “light” was a slang term for pregnant.  Perhaps this term is used in this context somewhere in the novel, but I do not remember.  But it seems that Faulkner’s wife remarked one evening about the light, which led the author to literally run to his manuscript and promptly change the title.

Hmmm.  Light and dark.  White and black.  Life and death.  Love and hate.  Who we are, who we want to be.  All these things come to pass in the strange light of a Mississippi August as events unfold surrounding the birth of a little baby.

Now that makes sense.