“Farmer said, ‘I’m goin’ t’ put it on my strawberries.’
“Feller said, ‘We might be crazy, but we put whipped cream on ours!’”
Bingo! Laughter all around!
On the front row, Lew Boyd slapped his leg, a type of response the vicar knew Uncle Billy always valued.
Thank you, Lord!
Dr. Hoppy Harper unfolded himself from the metal chair like a carpenter’s ruler. He was the tallest one beneath the tent, which inspired a good deal of respect right off the bat.
The town doctor turned to those assembled.
“Uncle Billy told this joke quite a few years ago, when he and Miss Rose came to dinner at Father Tim’s rectory. I’ve never forgotten that evening, for lots of reasons, and especially because another of my favorite patients was then living—Miss Sadie Baxter.”
More nodding of heads. A few murmurs. Miss Sadie Baxter!
“Uncle Billy, I hope I don’t let you down.”
Hoppy shoved his hands into the sport coat he was wearing over his green scrubs.
“A fella wanted to learn to sky dive…don’t you know. He goes to this school and he takes a few weeks of training, and pretty soon, it comes time to make his jump.
“So he goes up in this little plane and bails out, and down he shoots like a ton of bricks. He gets down a ways…don’t you know, and starts pulling on his cord, but nothing happens. He’s really traveling now, still pulling that cord. Nothing. Switches over to his emergency cord, same thing—nothing happens; he’s looking at the tree tops. All of a sudden, here comes this other guy shootin’ up from the ground like a rocket. And the guy going down says, ‘Hey buddy, d’you know anything about parachutes?’ And the one coming up says, ‘Afraid not; d’you know anything about gas stoves?’”
Laughter and applause. This would be a tough act to follow.
Father Tim waited for the laughter to subside, and stepped forward.
“A census taker was makin’ ’is rounds, don’t you know.”
A burst of laughter.
“I love this one!” Hessie Mayhew whispered to the mayor’s secretary.
“Well, sir, he went up to a house an’ knocked an’ a woman come to th’ door. He said, ‘How many young ’uns you got, an’ what’re their names?’
“Woman starts countin’ on her fingers, don’t you know, says, ‘We got Jenny an’ Penny, they’re ten. We got Hester an’ Lester, they’re twelve. We got Billie an’ Willie, they’re fourteen….”
“Census taker says…”
A large knot rose suddenly in his throat. Uncle Billy felt so near, so present that the vicar was jarred profoundly. And what in heaven’s name did the census taker say? His wits had deserted him; he was sinking like a stone.
Miss Rose stood, clutching a handbag made in 1946 of cork rounds from the caps of soda pop bottles.
“Th’ census taker says,” she proclaimed at the top of her lungs, “‘D’you mean t’ tell me you got twins ever’ time?’
“An’ th’ woman says, ‘Law, no, they was hundreds of times we didn’t git nothin’!’”
Cleansed somehow in spirit, and feeling an unexpected sense of renewal, those assembled watched the coffin being lowered into place. It was a graveside procedure scarcely seen nowadays, and one that signaled an indisputable finality.
“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother, William Benfield Watson, and commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ….”
He’d always felt daunted by Rose Watson’s countenance, for it bore so clearly the mark of her illness. Indeed, it appeared as if some deep and terrible rage had surfaced, and hardened there for all to witness.
She wore a black cocktail hat of uncertain antiquity, and a black suit he remembered from their days at Lord’s Chapel. It was made memorable by its padded shoulders from the forties, and a lapel that had been largely eaten away by moths.
Betty Craig gripped Miss Rose’s arm, looking spent but encouraged, as people delivered their condolences and departed the graveside.
“Miss Rose…”
He took the old woman’s cold hands, feeling frozen as a mullet himself. Though he believed he was somehow responsible for her well-being, he hadn’t a clue how to proceed.
She threw back her head and mowed him down with her fierce gaze. “I saved your bloomin’ neck!” she squawked.
“Yes, you did! By heaven, you did!”
He was suddenly laughing at his own miserable ineptness, and at the same time, weeping for her loss. “And God bless you for it!”
He found himself doing the unthinkable—he was hugging Rose Watson and patting her on the back for a fare-thee-well.
Light from Heaven, Ch. 13
Father Tim Tells Dooley the Big News
HE WAS STANDING at the bookcase when he heard his boy coming along the hall at a clip, probably to pick up the car keys.
Dooley stood before him as if frozen.
“What happened? You’re white as a sheet.”
“I called him a bad name. A really bad name.”
“Who?”
“Blake.”
“Why?”
“He argues about everything; I couldn’t stand it any longer. I let him have it.”
“Unbelievable.” This was not good news.
“He’s an arrogant, self-righteous…”
“That may be. But that’s no excuse.” He was disappointed in Dooley. Miss Sadie, dadgummit, don’t look at me; he knows better.
“But I shouldn’t have called him what I did. Actually, I wanted to punch ’im; I had to really hold back. But no matter how blind he is to the truth, I shouldn’t have said what I said. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to him, and I apologize to you, too. I know you hate this kind of stuff.”
There. The boy had made a mistake and was apologizing to all concerned. Dooley was human, for heaven’s sake, what was he waiting for? For his son to be canonized? It was time.
He let his breath out, like the long, slow release of air from a tire gone wrong.
“Let’s sit down, son. Take the wing chair.”
“That’s yours.”
“Not really. Right now, it’s yours.”
“You want me to sit down now or go and do what I have to do with Blake?”
“Do what you have to do with Blake, and get back here fast, I have something important to tell you.” He could hardly wait another minute; the waiting was over. But where to start? He’d had this conversation a hundred times in his imagination….
He sat and prayed and stared out the window and scratched his dog behind the ears.
Dooley came back, looking relieved. “He took it pretty well; he knows he’s hard to get along with. If he’d just listen….”
“How would you like to have your own practice when you finish school?”
Dooley sat down and glanced at his watch. “Unless somebody leaves me a million bucks….”
Dooley eyed him, grinning.
“Don’t look at me, buddyroe. I am definitely not your man on that deal. How would you like to have the Meadowgate practice? Hal’s retiring in five years, just one year short of when you get your degree.”
“Meadowgate would be, like, a dream. It’s perfect, it’s everything I could ever want, but it’ll take years to make enough money to…”
“What if you had the money to buy it?” Why was he asking these questions? Why couldn’t he get on with it? He’d held on to his secret for so long, he was having trouble letting it go.
“Well, yes,” said Dooley, “but I don’t even know what Hal would sell it for. Probably, what do you think, half a million? I’ve done a little reading on that kind of thing, but…” Dooley looked suspicious, even anxious. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Since he’s not planning to include the house and land, I’d guess less than half a million. Maybe three or four hundred thousa
nd for the business and five acres. And if you wanted, Hal could be a consultant. But only if you wanted.”
“Yeah, and I could fire Blake. Anyway, nice dream.” Dooley checked his watch.
“Let me tell you about a dream Miss Sadie had. It was her dream to see one Dooley Barlowe be all he can be, to be all God made him to be. She believed in you.”
Dooley’s scalp prickled; the vicar’s heart pounded.
“She left you what will soon be two million dollars.” He had wondered for years how the words would feel in his mouth.
There was a long silence. Dooley appeared to have lost his breath; Father Tim thought the boy might faint.
“Excuse me.” Dooley stood and bolted from the library.
“You don’t look so good,” Father Tim said when Dooley returned. “What happened?”
“I puked.”
“Understandable.”
Dooley thumped into the wing chair, stupefied.
“What do you think?” asked Father Tim.
“I can’t think. There’s no way I can think. You aren’t kidding me, are you?”
“I wouldn’t kid about these numbers.”
“It makes me sad that I can’t thank her. I mean, why did she do it? I was just a scrawny little kid who cleaned out her attic and hauled her ashes. Why would she do it?”
“I can’t make it any simpler. She believed in you.”
“But why?”
“Maybe because the man she loved had been a boy like you—from the country, trying to make it on his own; smart, very smart, but without any resources whatsoever. It so happens that Willard Porter made it anyway, as you would, also. But she wanted you to have resources.”
Tears brimmed in Dooley’s eyes. “Man.”
“You want to go out in the yard and holler—or anything?”
“I feel…” Dooley turned his gaze away.
“You feel?”
“Like I want to bust out cryin’.”
“You can do that,” he said. “I’ll cry with you.”
Cynthia knocked lightly and opened the door. “I can feel it. You know.”
Dooley stood. “Yeah. Yes, ma’am.”
“And the two of you are bawling about it?”
Father Tim nodded, wiping his eyes.
“You big dopes.” She went to Dooley and hugged him and drew his head down and kissed his cheek. “Remember me in my old age.”
Dooley cackled.
The air in the room released.
Father Tim put his handkerchief in his pocket.
A new era had begun.
Light from Heaven, Ch. 19
Someone to Say “Bless You”
Afriend who distinguishes herself as a fearless cook once sent me a magazine article I’ve never forgotten.
It was about a couple of gourmands who moved from America to a certain part of southern France “because of the chicken.”
“Because of the chicken!” my friend scrawled across the top of the article. “Can you believe it?”
Well, yes. I could, actually.
Their reason for moving thousands of miles to savor that particular version of free-range poulet is hardly odder than my reason for leaving a successful career and moving to Blowing Rock, North Carolina.
One of the reasons I moved here is because there’s always someone to say “Bless you!” when you sneeze.
Clearly, such nurture finds its zenith in small towns.
There are other simple nurtures at work here, as well. Take, for example, a conversation with two merchant friends.
I had rambled along winding backroads the livelong morning, stopping at a country store for a Cheerwine and two packs of Nabs—a staple lunch menu in these parts.
Around noon, I swung into Blowing Rock and dropped by to see friends who were mountain natives and Main Street store owners.
“Had lunch yet?” I asked.
“Yep, did you?”
“Yep. Two packs of Nabs.”
“Two packs?”
“Two packs.”
“Hon, did you hear that?”
“What’s that?”
“She had two packs.”
“Two packs of what?”
“Nabs.”
“Well, I’ll say. Two packs. How about that.”
“My, my. Two packs.”
“Nabs.” Long, pondering silence. “I declare!”
This exchange invoked a kind of reverie that felt slightly akin to being wrapped in swaddling clothes.
While some people in our town prefer the reviving heat of a political discussion or a good wrangle over the widening of Highway 321, I prefer conversations which, on the surface, say almost nothing, but are redolent with subterranean meaning. What the above conversation was all about was perfectly clear to me. It was about passing time, and relishing even the smallest of pleasures—as one might savor the minuscule sweetness of a single currant in a scone.
Around here, small pleasures can be gained simply from greeting a neighbor.
“Good morning! How’re you?” I ask.
“Oh, well, no rest for th’ wicked, and th’ righteous don’t need none.”
Now, that’s entertainment.
It doesn’t take much for me, as my sister-in-law often says. What she actually says is, “You can make more out of nothing than anybody I know.”
WHEN I WAS READY to move out of the fast lane and into a village, I started looking for a house. I didn’t, however, have any specific description of the house that would shelter me as I made the transition from writing ads to writing books.
I merely said, “I’m looking for the perfect house.”
“What does that mean…exactly?” the realtor inquired.
“I don’t know. I’ll know when I see it.”
And, of course, I did know when I saw it, as I am a consummate house person to whom the right house inevitably, speaks.
What a house never tells you when it speaks is how much blood, sweat, and yes, tears it will take to claim it for your own. But who cares? When one has the perfect house, one is willing to settle for less than the perfect truth.
I recently put another house inside this old mountain home. It is a dollhouse, and it occupies the lower shelf of my kitchen spice rack, which was made by my great-uncle Sid before he left for California, where he made a million, lost it, and never returned.
On the wall of this little domicile is a framed cross-stitch that says “Home Sweet Home.” Gathered around the fireplace are papa, lately arrived from work at his lumberyard, a baby who has lost a leg, a little boy in a rocking chair, and a mother who is rolling out biscuit dough with a deft hand.
Most of the furniture was made years ago by two nieces, a nephew, and their father. They even thought to take a tiny block of wood, paint it black, and inscribe “Holy Bible” on the cover.
Here, then, is another perfect house. As I roast a chicken, and the fragrances of garlic and homegrown rosemary scent the rooms, I might reach up and move the papa to the table, where he will devour every morsel of an imagined supper, holding the one-legged baby on his lap. Or, I will move the little boy closer to the dough board, where he can watch with amazement as his mother cuts out biscuits with the rim of his favorite drinking cup.
I think of other houses that have spoken to me through the years, though I never claimed them for my own. There was the abandoned house I discovered in the Spanish countryside, with the wind blowing through crumbling walls, and the meadow grass springing up for carpet, and the wide patches of sapphire sky that looked in through a ruined tile roof.
Or the house in East Anglia that, following a group tour of some of England’s stateliest homes, revealed its heart to us with such candor that we nearly clapped our hands with delight.
After acres of museum-quality furnishings and paintings, and marathon pelmets of eroding silk, we came to the owner’s private quarters, where her telly sat on a rolling aluminum stand. Where her slippers were tossed casually by a slouchy, slipcovered chair.
Where her needlepoint-in-progress lay sprawled on a worn ottoman. Where party invitations were tucked carelessly into the frame of a mirror. Where, obviously, someone actually lived.
Our tour group stood there, silent with nameless joy. In a memorable moment of shared intimacy, we looked on in wonder at something that reminded us all of home.
BECAUSE I WORK at home, I must keep on very friendly terms with my surroundings.
This means I must love the way the afternoon light illumines the Chinese-red euonymus berries outside my writing window.
It means I must like the way the wall above my desk is dauntingly cluttered with images from magazines, Valentines from loved ones, Scripture from church bulletins, old photos, and the yellowed quote from Horace: “He has half the deed done who has made a beginning.”
If I’m at war with the way my room looks, I cannot write a word until it’s fixed. I will bolt from my desk like a suddenly wakened sleeper, to straighten a picture that’s hanging crooked, or fluff a pillow that sighed and went flat.
For me, working at home and interacting with it is important to my productivity. It does for me what fingering a smooth piece of jade might do for another.
“The problem for writers,” says writer Diane Johnson, “is that they practically have to be shut-ins, stay-at-homes…consequently, [there is a need] for an ivory tower of their own special variety.”
I live in a house that’s truly my ivory tower. And if a whole town could possibly be called an ivory tower, then I have found two. For in our village of 1,800 (in the summer, we accelerate to a population of over 4,000), the people are just as warm and quirky, generous and kind as you think small-town folks used to be, but no longer are. Trust me—they still are.
As I write this in the late-autumn stillness of our mountain village, the tourists have gone, the summer people have left, and the russet leaves have fallen. All that remains is what you can make happen on your own during the long months of winter.
There are no more party invitations to tuck into the frame of one’s mirror, to rob attention from the novel in progress. It is time to be a shut-in again, and get down to business.