And so it is my interest in – not my understanding of – most things tech that keeps me in the geek column. This is why I listened when Leo Laporte of This Week in Tech recommended the Millennium Trilogy by Steig Larsson as a great read for geeks who like a good story. He also bragged on the incredible narration of Simon Vance in the audiobook release. Well, twist my arm.

So when my monthly Audible credit rolled around, I dove into the world of the Swedish underground with book one, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. At the same time, I discovered the Swedish film adaptation available on Netflix for instant viewing. Normally I would read the book first, then catch the movie. In this case, I’m glad I broke protocol.

The movie was excellent. The casting was spot on in my opinion having now completed the novel. The story was followed with fidelity on everything critical to the plot. There were a few variations, but that kept it interesting for me.

The plot and sub plots get a little complicated only because they take a long time to develop as one story. The movie condenses this of course. So having seen the movie helped me keep it all straight. (Remember, I’m good with people.)

Story aside, the book was interesting for a number of reasons. I’m one of those dumb Americans who thinks the whole world is just like me. So it was intriguing to watch the Swedish (perhaps simply European) way of life become a character. Dialogue (even post-translation) as well as attitudes about social structure, sex, and professional ethics, all had a distinctly different flavor than a book by Patterson, Turrow, or Clancey.

Also interesting to me was the picture of Stockholm with this seedy underbelly of corruption and crime. Not once did anyone yodel from a mountaintop. No one even yelled “ricola!”

But I can see why these novels are so popular. I’m interested to see what happens to the American film adaptation, rumored for a 2012 release. Early indications peg Natalie Portman for the lead, with the typical leading guys on the short list too (Pitt, Clooney, yada, yada).

Next up for me is The Girl Who Played With Fire. Can’t wait.

NB: These books center on characters with pretty liberal morals. Scenes are graphic and situations can be uncomfortable. Just saying, don’t buy it for your 12 year old daughter.

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.

I’m not sure anyone has ever written a song that so completely encapsulates who I am and what I would have wanted to say if I could write like that.  This is an incredible song and one that warrants a quick read, regardless of your musical tastes.

Love Me If You  Can (Wallin/Wiseman)
Toby Keith

Sometimes think that war is necessary
Every night I pray for peace on earth
I hand out my dollars to the homeless
But believe that every able soul should work

My father gave me my shotgun
That I’ll hand down, to my son
Try to teach him everything it means

I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can

I stand by my right to speak freely
But I worry about what kids learn on TV

And before all of the bedlam turn to angry words and hate
Sometimes we should just agree to disagree

And I believe that Jesus
Looks down here and sees us

And if you asked him he would say

I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can

Well said. 

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 . . .

And now for the headlines . . .

Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Expert Says

Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers

Drunk Gets Nine Months in Violin Case

Iraqi Head Seeks Arms

Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over

Include Your Children when Baking Cookies

Clinton Wins on Budget, But More Lies Ahead

Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told

Miners Refuse to Work after Death

Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant

Stolen Painting Found by Tree

War Dims Hope for Peace

If Strike Isn’t Settled Quickly, It May Last a While

Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures

Enfields Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide

Red Tape Holds Up New Bridges

Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

Kids Make Nutritious Snacks

Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors

New Vaccine May Contain Rabies

Man Struck By Lightning Faces Battery Charge 

And finally, I must include one of my own.  Many of you might remember the Christmas Missions offering two years ago at Brentwood Baptist.  That’s right, “Hope for the World,” the one for which your’s truley designed and sent an email to 3,000 church members, an email with a headline that read . . .

Hope for the World Ends January 24

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.

What it did not earn me was a true understanding of how this book, or any other by William Faulkner was to be read.  This is why, when I picked up this same book fifteen years later, I had no idea what I was doing.  I was expecting to read a Twain-esque account of the humor and absurdity of turn-of-the-century Yoknapatawpha, mixed with death and a few lofty social ideals.

That lasted until page two.

By chapter two, I turned the book upside down to see if it made any more sense.  Isn’t it a rule that if you use a pronoun it should be clear to what that pronoun is referring?  Isn’t it important to let the reader know with some degree of chronology the events leading up to a dialogue?  At least within 50 pages?

He (Faulkner – see, that isn’t so hard) didn’t play by the rules.  Which leads me to the first basic rule when reading Faulkner . . . get the Cliff Notes.  Or at least the online SparkNotes.  They’re very helpful for understanding at the very least concepts like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . A PLOT!!!  But this reader’s guide will also be glad to tell you how to interpret the thematic elements behind what you’ve just read (read: how to think). 

So, with the help of my online “aid,” I made it through a truly wonderful and fascinating book about the Bundrens and their journey to bury poor Adi.  Man, talk about your screwed up families.

I took some time to recuperate and re-organize my brain into proper lobe positions.  This took approximately six months, one John Grisham novel, one Nicholas Sparks novel, and a few Capote short stories.  After that, it was off to the races again.

My next project, Light in August.  First let me say that this selection was solely predicated on the availability of audiobooks through my library’s online lending system.  I downloaded the book, transfered it to my PDA (thanks to my 1GB storage card) and committed my drives to and from work to the legendary author and his strange use of the “stream of consciousness” narrative.

I’m almost done.  While it helped that the actor reading the book is VERY good, I still had to break out the old SparksNotes bookmark in my browser.  I tried, really.  But by chapter four, I was as lost as last year’s Easter egg.  But this book has a rhythm.  It has a meter that can be followed for each character.  The language changes with each dialogue, much like As I Lay Dying.  And I finally understood the one thing every reader needs to have when reading Faulkner . . .

A lot of mental RAM.

If you are like me, you like to let go of useless information to make room for new useless information.  Normally, this is OK because any other author would give you clues to keep important details at the front of your mind.  To Faulkner, everything is important.  And he will most likely give you a detail in chapter one that will not make sense until chapter seven.  If you are able to piece together the seemingly random bits of data, you will most certainly find a very interesting, if not mind-blowing connection among characters and events.

My advise, read this book.  But don’t be afraid to follow every other chapter (or every other paragraph if necessary) with a glimpse at the SparksNotes.  If you’re like me, you’ll get the hang of it after a while.  And soon, you’ll not only be piecing together what you’ve just read, but you’ll actually begin anticipating what is coming next.  (Careful, professional driver on a closed course).

If you’re so inclinded, have fun.  And remember, Faulkner is best served with a warm pipe on a cool Autumn afternoon.  (But don’t tell my wife.)