I Remember This Tree

November 22, 2006

At a time in my life when I am discovering what “father” really means, I find myself working harder than ever to reconcile who I am with who I hope to be . . . as a dad, as a husband, as a man.  The following is a short story about a young man who’s childhood memories serve as constant life lessons, lessons that pay tribute to the wisdom and strength of his father.  I don’t know too many men who wouldn’t want to be remembered in this way.

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

Posted in Family, Literature, Short Stories, Stories, fiction, writing