Short Tales and Tall

— INTRODUCTION —

IAM ONLY ONE, though I have been many. But first, I was a boy. In the springtime of that boyhood, I rafted with Huck, whitewashed with Tom and became an invisible islander surreptitiously watching Crusoe and Friday struggle. I flew brilliant days with Icarus and Arabian nights aboard magic carpets, made short flights with Wilbur and Orville and a long one with Lindbergh. I chased von Richthofen over French farms and spat fire all over London. I had a dog named White Fang that faithfully followed me everywhere, and together, we went to the horizon and beyond.

I never had to buy a ticket. The public library gave me free passage to the universe. Every book and magazine was a passport to where I wasn’t, so I devoured them like sweet grapes.

But it never occurred to me to write anything…

I disagree with that silver-haired sage who said that youth is wasted on the young. Most young men don’t waste a minute! The summer of my own youth was hot. I sowed a few wild oats (and in my fantasy scattered enough to feed Russia and China.) That hormonal activity, co-existing with serious studies and the beginnings of a musical career, harshly hampered my pleasure in reading, though not for long.

Soon, I discovered a new joy—that of owning books. Books store kiosks pulled me in like carnival barkers. I bought and read everything between two covers, nearly going broke before discovering the greatest invention since Gutenberg’s press—the paperback!

Fiction remained my fateful fetish, never movies or TV. To this day, I can’t think of more than two films (Tom Jones and To Kill A Mockingbird) that came close to the essence of books they tried to portray, and Television simply became my excuse for not reading so many magazines, as well as my free ticket to the Super Bowl and the World Series.

Wife, two children, and a career conducting symphony orchestras all collected their time toll, but I read on. And on. Somewhere along the way, though, I began to wonder if just reading books (like simply listening to music) wasn’t merely a form of mental masturbation. It gradually dawned on me that, as good composers took me behind their notes and phrases, good writers were taking me far beyond their words—to their actual thoughts. Was this the beginning of my maturity? Probably. In any event, reading for pleasure no longer seemed enough.

I began a journal…

The autumn of middle age caught me dozing. Absorbed in my music, I had sleepwalked through important events going on all around me—until Oswald’s rifle shots woke me up. Later, I wished I could have also slumbered through the nightmares of race riots, the tragedies of Martin and Bobby, and the horror-opera of Vietnam. I wept for our country’s bloody nose and bloodier conscience. Part of me ached for a hero, but Shirer had long ago slapped me with the reality of genocide, and Mailer and others had burned away my cataracts of romanticism about war, revealing truth and the stench of death. And what of the cold war? I felt a distant chill occasionally. Nothing more, and eventually, the wall came tumbling down.

Autumn is almost gone. December’s near. When I first smelled my winter approaching, it scared the hell out of me. Then, I realized I had a few stories of my own to tell. It occurred to me that I had also been to many places, seen and experienced a lot, even learned a few things. And maybe, just maybe, others might be interested in some of it. I began to take my journal seriously, and so, began to write…

I read somewhere that to have lived a full life, a man should have raised a son, planted a tree, and built a boat. To this, I would add that he should have written a book. Nowadays, I am writing more than I’m reading. Better late than never? I hope so. Something in me says I know so.

As the old German song goes, In Heaven, there is no beer. That’s why we have to drink it all here. There are still thirsty readers out there somewhere. Sure, it’s late, but winter’s a fine season, and to my knowledge, nobody has ever died from writer’s cramp…

And so then, here are some from my collection, which include tales of drama, humor, sports, and love. They are not grouped together in any formal order. Rather, they are randomly set, as were the thoughts that produced them.

T.L.

— FAMILY TREES —

NO GREAT BATTLE was fought at Beckley, West Virginia, such as those that raged at nearby Shiloh or Chattanooga, nor can you see a Civil War monument. Not even a historical cemetery. But you can still find the old prejudices there, the lingering memories—and the ghosts. You don’t believe in ghosts? Don’t say that to the folks in West Beckley, especially Em Carnes—or to me.

Getting to know Emmitt Carnes made me wish I had known Grandpa better. It’s a long way from Boseman to Beckley, though, so I never had more than a few visits with him. Mom always said that he and Dad were as different as night and day. Oil and water. Even now, Mom is bitter because Dad died of a heart attack at age forty-two while Grandpa fought old age scornfully until he passed away quietly in his sleep at age ninety-four. Everyone always told me I was more like my Grandpa than my stockbroker father. I always thought so, too.

When I went into the National Park Service after college, Grandpa secretly decided to will me the property he had always withheld from Dad and Mom. I, of course, knew nothing about it until Grandpa’s funeral. I came alone. Mom, still nursing her grudge, refused to accompany me, and Wanda couldn’t, being more than eight months pregnant.

It was in September of 1973 and the leaves were already changing color. After the burial service, Emmitt Carnes rolled himself over in his wheelchair to shake hands. He looked as old as Grandpa had. You come on over to the hardware store tomorrow, boy. We’ll talk us a spell.

It sounded more like a command than a polite invitation.

The following morning, I drove the rental car around Beckley for several hours, trying to sort out my cobweb of childhood memories—without much success. Got to Carnes’ Hardware Store moments before the mother of all thunderstorms struck. Unchanged for more than fifty years, the store’s old-fashioned wooden facade looked as worn and weather-beaten as Em himself, who was sitting on the porch in his wheelchair. He greeted me warmly. Mornin’ boy, come on up here outa that rain. Have a seat.

I took a seat in one of the four rocking chairs. Thank you, sir.

Sit on back and relax, son. Want some coffee?

No thanks, Mr. Carnes. I already had—

You call me Em, boy. Nobody calls me Emmitt. Sounds too much like dammit, I reckon. He cackled and spat snuff over the banister rail.

Fine, Em. Thanks, too, for coming to Grandpa’s funeral. I know it can’t be easy for you to get around, with your disability.

You mean bein’ crippled? Aw, it ain’t so bad with this here chair. Besides, my arms is still strong enough. Yep, I reckon most everybody come out yesterday. Your Grandpa had a heap of friends ‘round here. I knowed him a long time.

Before I was born, I’m sure.

‘Fore your Daddy was born! Hellfire, son, we was little boys together. Long time ago, Frank. You know what, though? You look more like him than your Daddy. You’re a true McGill, sure enough.

I never really knew him. We live so far away.

That’s so, but he remembered you, boy. Said you had a real love of the land and nature even when you was a tadpole. No offense, now, but he never thought your Daddy had any kinda feelin’ for outdoor things. Anyhow, he’s gone on, now, and left you a right smart little piece of land.

He chuckled and again spat accurately over the rail. "Folks used to rib him a lot over that land. Used to tell him it was so poor you couldn’t even raise hell on it. Didn’t bother him none, though. He just went right on about his bizness. ‘Course, your Grandpa’s land was just a little piece of what his Grandpa started out with… He paused, squinting at me. You really don’t know nothin’ about it, do you?"

I confessed. Not much. I know it has an interesting history, but when Dad was alive, he seldom mentioned it, and Mom would rather have talked about bubonic plague.

Em chuckled again. Tell you what, go on in the store and tell my boy George to git us some coffee, then come on back out here and I’ll tell you the whole story.

While George poured the coffee, I glanced around the cluttered office that seemed so incongruous to the rest of the store’s modernized interior. Behind the massive desk hung yet another of the haunting paintings I had seen all over town. George, I asked, Is there something significant about that picture? I’ve seen the same one, in various sizes, everywhere I’ve been in Beckley.

Oh. Well, yes, you could say so. That’s James and Faith.

James and—but it’s a painting of two trees.

Here, take the coffee on out to Pa. He’ll tell you all about it.

Back on the porch, I handed Em his mug. Your store is really nice inside, Em. Impressive.

I reckon. George and his college-boy son talked me into remodeling it a few years back, but I wouldn’t let ‘em mess up my office none.

I noticed that. I also noticed the unusual painting hanging in there. I’ve seen the same painting at my motel and in three different restaurants. George said you might tell me about it.

Yep, you’ll see James and Faith all over Beckley. Them pictures was done by your Grandpa’s first wife, Carrie.

This revelation floored me. First wife? I never knew he—

"Well, son, she weren’t rightly married to him. More like a common law wife, you see. They was both just young’uns back then. Your Grandpa didn’t marry your real Grandma till some years later.

Anyway…

I waited, several minutes, while Em sipped his coffee and stared out into the storm, seeing people and images long past.

… Anyway, Frank, I’ll tell you all about it, but it might take a while. Why don’t you go on out and look over your new property first. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ll be here when you git back.

BY MORNING, the storm had abated from stark violence to a hard downpour, forming a gray curtain around Em’s porch. He had a blanket over his legs and a twinkle in his eye. Like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock, ain’t it, Frank?

I laughed along with him. You really love it here, don’t you?

Yessir. I sure do, son. I’m bettin’ you will, too. Don’t git so much snow as you do out west, just enough to make it interestin’ and take my word, it don’t rain like this very often. Why don’t you git us some more coffee. I got a bottle of Jim Beam under this here blanket we can doctor it up with if’n it gits a chill on.

Inside, my eyes were once again magnetically drawn to the painting of the two trees. I returned with the coffee and asked, Em, you promised to tell me about that painting. Why do you call it ‘James and Faith’?

Em poured a healthy dollop of bourbon into his cup, took a couple sips, and began:

"Your Grandpa’s Grandpa was Hiram McGill. He was the one cleared most of that land, before the Civil War. Folks ‘round here said Hiram had two talents; raisin’ crops and raisin’ kids. Had things right much his own way, Hiram did. He done better than most with that land of his, and people respected him a lot. He went through two wives and had twelve young’uns altogether.

"He never had but one problem, that being Cletis Burns. Burns owned that scraggly piece of land next to Hiram’s. Them two never got along. Always arguin’ about everything from politics to boundary lines. Don’t know which was worse. Anyhow, when the war finally broke out, old Burns, he joined right up with the rebs down in Tennessee. Left his wife and his two youn’uns; a boy named Simon and a little girl called Faith; a right purty little thing, about twelve years old.

"Now, Hiram, he joined the Union Army. Lots of men around here did. By then, Hiram had several boys big enough to tend his place while he was gone off to war. One the youngest was named James. James had been born on the same day as Faith Burns, and they had liked each other since they was pups. ‘Course, them two young’uns takin’ such a shine to each other just made more bad blood between Hiram and Cletis. Some said they hated each other more over them two kids than they ever had over politics or land boundaries, or anything else.

"Well, the war finally got over with and both men came on home with nary a scratch, but all the time they’d been gone, James and Faith had growed up a heap, and was always sneakin’ down to that little crick at the low end of the meadow so’s they could be together. They didn’t love nothin’ in the world but each other. Nobody could keep ‘em apart, not even when their daddies came back from the fightin’.

"Anyway, back in ‘73, Cletis found ‘em down there one fall day. They was both just sixteen. Old Cletis snuck down there and caught ‘em both doin’ just what every other creature on earth does. He got so mad when he saw James on top of Faith, he yanked out his old reb pistol and shot ‘em both right through the head, like they weren’t no more than a pair of rabbits.

"Hiram and his other boys was workin’ the field up to the north and heard the shots. They ran down there fast as they could, already half suspectin’ what had happened. Well, they didn’t hold no court that day, Frank. They just drug Cletis right back on up to his place and hung him from a tree in his own back yard. Folks say old Cletis fought ‘em like a bear, but the McGill’s hung him anyway. Nothin’ was ever done about it, neither, and after a spell, Cletis’ wife, who was expectin’ another baby, took her boy and moved down to Tennessee, where she had some folks.

"Hiram and his sons buried James and Faith right there next to that little crick where they’d died. Some said Hiram carved a small headstone outa wood, but it must’ve rotted over the years. Didn’t matter none, though, ‘cause by spring, this here white oak tree and a little bitty willow started growin’ there like blazes. Weren’t long till them two trees got big and kinda growed together, limbs all mixed, like vines. That’s how they are to this day.

"Like I said, when your grandpa brought Carrie out here, all she wanted to do was paint pictures. When she heard about James and