Chapter 4
I dreaded the trip to Heavener even before leaving Tulsa. The closer I got there, the worse it got. Most people look forward to coming home to see their relatives, friends and where they grew up.
Not me. The pain from my ulcer kept getting worse. It wasn't all that bad until I hit Sallisaw. But the final forty miles was terrible. It wasn't just the driving home that bothered me. It was also the driving. I usually don’t admit this, but driving and I don’t mix all that great.
Most of the kids I grew up with couldn’t wait to turn sixteen and get their license. I didn’t get mine until I was seventeen and only did it then because I was tired of people ragging me about not having one. With the job I have now, I have to travel so I must have a car and drive. Not that I like it. But at least the traffic isn’t terrible most of the time and the roads are good, considering they are in Oklahoma.
I had four-lane roads all the way from Tulsa to Sallisaw. After turning south on Highway 59, that all changed. It would be two-lane and curvy most of the way home, the only break at Poteau where a new four-lane bypass took traffic around town.
If my stomach had not been aching, I would have stopped at Wildhorse Barbeque just south of Sallisaw. I have had a lot of barbeque in my forty-two years and never found anything as good. Established in the 1950's by an old man named Hubert, the place wasn't much to look at, something most good barbeque places share, but the ribs and chopped-beef sandwiches are smoking.
Autographed pictures of famous people touting Hubert's barbeque, such as Johnny Paycheck and Mickey Gilley, line the walls. It was an unwritten rule that you never asked what kind of meat was in the mix, because you really didn't want to know the answer. Up until the late 1980's, you could buy beer in cans from a vending machine in front of the store 24 hours a day without any identification. Small town life does have its perks.
Traffic wasn’t bad until I got out of Poteau. The last fifteen miles were the worse, because of the driving and the dread. I got behind some old goat driving a John Deere tractor down the highway south of Poteau. There were cars backed up behind him for almost a quarter of a mile, not that it seemed to bother him.
He kept the traffic tied up going over Longlake Hill and didn’t bother to let anybody pass until we reached a passing zone, where he finally pulled to the side and motioned for people to come around. The old man smiled and waved at the first couple of cars until a Ford SUV with Texas plates honked and flipped him the bird.
People get flipped off and honked at in Tulsa all the time. I was used to seeing that, but not familiar with people driving a tractor down a highway. Tulsa’s finest probably wouldn’t put up with that.
After passing through Howe, the last speed-trap of a little town, I arrived at the outskirts of Heavener, feeling a dread like I never had before. The doctors sent Dad home earlier in the morning, saying there wasn’t much they could do for him. I figured they were probably tired of having to deal with the old coot.
The same sign that has greeted visitors for the last twenty years was at the city limits. It was green with white lettering. WELCOME TO HEAVENER, POPULATION 2,500 AND COUNTING it said. I guess it was supposed to make people laugh but I never saw any humor in it. It was just a good thing it didn't count the white people with jobs.
Some of the lettering had faded and the sign was rusty. The rust along with the bullet holes made it tough to read. I remember when the Chamber of Commerce put the sign up. A lot of people were proud of it, at least until the next weekend when some of my classmates took target practice at the sign with a .22 while riding in the back of the truck.
I passed a used-car lot owned by a guy a year younger. He was always a good guy and apparently doing well as the building is new and there are several cars and trucks on the lot.
The rest of the town hasn't changed much since my last visit. There is now a convenience store on the edge of town, one that bankrupted the three previous owners. It is now owned by the Choctaw Tribe, which has made enough from bingo and casino gaming to give this a place a try. They sell their tobacco cheaper than anyone else since they are not as heavily taxed. After being mistreated so long, now they are profiting from the vices of the white man. Makes me wonder what Geronimo would say, not that I could understand him.
There is a relatively new Family Dollar store where the Chevy dealership used to be until it went belly-up in the early 1990s. I passed by a new branch bank and several eating places before stopping at the one real stoplight in town. A train is flying through town on the tracks that run parallel to the highway and has traffic backed up at the two crossings. The grocery store on the right seems to be doing okay as the parking lot is full of mostly older cars and trucks. I notice rust seems to be a popular color on many of the vehicles.
Over the last ten years, many of the older homes along the highway have been torn down and replaced by commercial buildings. Downtown is dying, aside from several Hispanic ventures, as most of the new businesses have relocated to the highway, where all the traffic is.
I pass by the second branch bank in town and slowly turn off the highway. It is three more blocks to my parent’s house. I don’t really notice it at first, but I am driving slow enough that some little kid on a bike with training wheels is keeping pace. I look at him and see he is going all out, smiling as he drives beside me. He looks like so many other kids around here, wearing old tattered clothes and shoes that should have been replaced months ago.
Bathing was obviously not a priority as I see the dirt smeared heavily on his face, barely letting me see his smile. He looks to be around four or so, a little young to be playing out in the road. His hair is long, blond and caught up the breeze.
I stop at the first intersection and look at the boy. He doesn’t bother stopping and drives through the four-way. Luckily, no other cars are coming or the little Fred would have gotten smacked.
He turns south and cruises away, looking for other excitement.
The houses are the same ones I used to walk past on the way to and from school. Some of them are still nice. Most of them show the age and years of neglect. Many houses are well past their prime and need to be torn down. They used to be owned by people who actually lived in them, but many are now rental houses and look the part.
I slow even more while driving by her house. It is an older two-story home still in good shape. I remember sitting out in the porch swing when we were young, laughing, talking and enjoying each other’s company in a way you never can as an adult. During those moments, nothing could bring me down, not even living in Heavener or my father.
She still lives in the house, at least that’s what my mother mentioned the last time we talked about her. She takes care of her parents and works for a realtor in Poteau. The driveway is empty of cars so I know she isn’t home. I wonder if she still thinks of me and the times we had together so many years ago.
My mind is sidetracked for a few seconds and I almost drive by the turn to my parents' house. I throw on the brakes and hook a left. Their house is on the far end of the block, on a corner lot. It’s one of the nicer homes in town, a two-story house with a large yard. Both cars are parked in the driveway, along with one I don’t recognize. It’s one of those big cars that could pass for a boat so I imagine it is one of Dad's friends coming by to see how the old man is doing so they can pass it on to others.
The house is a light blue now. It was white when I was a child. The grass could use some care as it needs mowed and trimmed. I hear a dog yipping and turn around. The house across the street looks like it should be condemned. The grass is almost knee high and several junkers are parked in the front yard. My favorite is an old Chevy truck with a maple tree growing up through the hood. An old beagle that appears to have mange is pinned up in a small cage. He is barking at me, either to try and warn his owners about my presence or asking for my help in releasing him. He stands in the one place that affords him the luxury of not stepping in poop.
Judd Perkins owns this fine property and the dog. He is sitting out on the porch in his rocker, holding his cane in one hand. I’ve always thought he looked like a child molester and my opinion has not changed. Old Judd is not like wine as he obviously has not gotten better with age. He has a perpetual sneer on his face that has always worried me. As far as I know, Judd has never been convicted of any crimes. Charged with several, at least according to Mom, but never convicted. I always stayed away from him as a kid and still like to maintain my distance as an adult.
He's one of the countless old people in this country most of the people have forgotten about and most of the others would like to not know about. Judd wears a pair of overalls, sans a shirt. I notice Judd has put on some weight over the years and notice it looks like a bra would be in order. He’s a hairy man, I notice with much regret, as the grey chest hairs are hanging over the top of his overalls. Judd wears a pair of sandals with black socks on his feet, an interesting fashion statement, along with a blue hat that looks like it has been dunked in a vat of oil.
A razor has not met that face in weeks. He had not bothered to put in his teeth today so his mouth looks like it has caved in. Judd raises a gnarled hand and waves at me, causing the flab that should be the tricep muscles to jiggle like a bowl of jello.
He says something I cannot understand. I wave halfheartedly and walk the rest of the way up the sidewalk. I pause at the door, not sure whether I should go in or ring the doorbell. Technically, it is not my house anymore.
I spend way too much time worrying about this before the door opens. My mother stands before me, looking like she wants to cry. A short woman, she seems to have lost a little of her height. Her hair is perfect, of course, and Mom is dressed like she's fixing to go to church. That's actually how she always dresses so it isn't a surprise.
Her hair is starting to grey, despite the best efforts of her beautician. Seeing me, Mom, tries to smile, but I know it is fake.
“Hello, Michael,” she says. Mom is not a huggy, touchy, kind of person. Neither am I. It is something we know, respect and are comfortable with.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, also trying to fake a smile. I don’t want to be here and she knows it.
She steps aside so I can enter. I am carrying a gym bag with the necessities, a camera bag that holds my Canon and my laptop and nothing more.
The house is the same as it has been all these years. The furniture, smell and look have not changed. I guess for most people that would be comforting. For me, it gives me the chills.
“I’m glad you made it,” she said. Apparently Mom was worried, judging from the five times she called me during the two-hour drive to make sure I had not pulled a U-turn. “This will really mean a lot to your father.”
I had my doubts about that, but did not voice them.
She escorted me through the living room and down the hallway toward their bedroom. The door was closed and we stop.
“You need to prepare yourself,” Mom advised.
“For what?” I asked. I always prepared myself before I had to see my father.
“He’s in bad shape.”
I thought she was getting a little carried away, until I opened the door and saw him.
Chapter 5
Not me. The pain from my ulcer kept getting worse. It wasn't all that bad until I hit Sallisaw. But the final forty miles was terrible. It wasn't just the driving home that bothered me. It was also the driving. I usually don’t admit this, but driving and I don’t mix all that great.
Most of the kids I grew up with couldn’t wait to turn sixteen and get their license. I didn’t get mine until I was seventeen and only did it then because I was tired of people ragging me about not having one. With the job I have now, I have to travel so I must have a car and drive. Not that I like it. But at least the traffic isn’t terrible most of the time and the roads are good, considering they are in Oklahoma.
I had four-lane roads all the way from Tulsa to Sallisaw. After turning south on Highway 59, that all changed. It would be two-lane and curvy most of the way home, the only break at Poteau where a new four-lane bypass took traffic around town.
If my stomach had not been aching, I would have stopped at Wildhorse Barbeque just south of Sallisaw. I have had a lot of barbeque in my forty-two years and never found anything as good. Established in the 1950's by an old man named Hubert, the place wasn't much to look at, something most good barbeque places share, but the ribs and chopped-beef sandwiches are smoking.
Autographed pictures of famous people touting Hubert's barbeque, such as Johnny Paycheck and Mickey Gilley, line the walls. It was an unwritten rule that you never asked what kind of meat was in the mix, because you really didn't want to know the answer. Up until the late 1980's, you could buy beer in cans from a vending machine in front of the store 24 hours a day without any identification. Small town life does have its perks.
Traffic wasn’t bad until I got out of Poteau. The last fifteen miles were the worse, because of the driving and the dread. I got behind some old goat driving a John Deere tractor down the highway south of Poteau. There were cars backed up behind him for almost a quarter of a mile, not that it seemed to bother him.
He kept the traffic tied up going over Longlake Hill and didn’t bother to let anybody pass until we reached a passing zone, where he finally pulled to the side and motioned for people to come around. The old man smiled and waved at the first couple of cars until a Ford SUV with Texas plates honked and flipped him the bird.
People get flipped off and honked at in Tulsa all the time. I was used to seeing that, but not familiar with people driving a tractor down a highway. Tulsa’s finest probably wouldn’t put up with that.
After passing through Howe, the last speed-trap of a little town, I arrived at the outskirts of Heavener, feeling a dread like I never had before. The doctors sent Dad home earlier in the morning, saying there wasn’t much they could do for him. I figured they were probably tired of having to deal with the old coot.
The same sign that has greeted visitors for the last twenty years was at the city limits. It was green with white lettering. WELCOME TO HEAVENER, POPULATION 2,500 AND COUNTING it said. I guess it was supposed to make people laugh but I never saw any humor in it. It was just a good thing it didn't count the white people with jobs.
Some of the lettering had faded and the sign was rusty. The rust along with the bullet holes made it tough to read. I remember when the Chamber of Commerce put the sign up. A lot of people were proud of it, at least until the next weekend when some of my classmates took target practice at the sign with a .22 while riding in the back of the truck.
I passed a used-car lot owned by a guy a year younger. He was always a good guy and apparently doing well as the building is new and there are several cars and trucks on the lot.
The rest of the town hasn't changed much since my last visit. There is now a convenience store on the edge of town, one that bankrupted the three previous owners. It is now owned by the Choctaw Tribe, which has made enough from bingo and casino gaming to give this a place a try. They sell their tobacco cheaper than anyone else since they are not as heavily taxed. After being mistreated so long, now they are profiting from the vices of the white man. Makes me wonder what Geronimo would say, not that I could understand him.
There is a relatively new Family Dollar store where the Chevy dealership used to be until it went belly-up in the early 1990s. I passed by a new branch bank and several eating places before stopping at the one real stoplight in town. A train is flying through town on the tracks that run parallel to the highway and has traffic backed up at the two crossings. The grocery store on the right seems to be doing okay as the parking lot is full of mostly older cars and trucks. I notice rust seems to be a popular color on many of the vehicles.
Over the last ten years, many of the older homes along the highway have been torn down and replaced by commercial buildings. Downtown is dying, aside from several Hispanic ventures, as most of the new businesses have relocated to the highway, where all the traffic is.
I pass by the second branch bank in town and slowly turn off the highway. It is three more blocks to my parent’s house. I don’t really notice it at first, but I am driving slow enough that some little kid on a bike with training wheels is keeping pace. I look at him and see he is going all out, smiling as he drives beside me. He looks like so many other kids around here, wearing old tattered clothes and shoes that should have been replaced months ago.
Bathing was obviously not a priority as I see the dirt smeared heavily on his face, barely letting me see his smile. He looks to be around four or so, a little young to be playing out in the road. His hair is long, blond and caught up the breeze.
I stop at the first intersection and look at the boy. He doesn’t bother stopping and drives through the four-way. Luckily, no other cars are coming or the little Fred would have gotten smacked.
He turns south and cruises away, looking for other excitement.
The houses are the same ones I used to walk past on the way to and from school. Some of them are still nice. Most of them show the age and years of neglect. Many houses are well past their prime and need to be torn down. They used to be owned by people who actually lived in them, but many are now rental houses and look the part.
I slow even more while driving by her house. It is an older two-story home still in good shape. I remember sitting out in the porch swing when we were young, laughing, talking and enjoying each other’s company in a way you never can as an adult. During those moments, nothing could bring me down, not even living in Heavener or my father.
She still lives in the house, at least that’s what my mother mentioned the last time we talked about her. She takes care of her parents and works for a realtor in Poteau. The driveway is empty of cars so I know she isn’t home. I wonder if she still thinks of me and the times we had together so many years ago.
My mind is sidetracked for a few seconds and I almost drive by the turn to my parents' house. I throw on the brakes and hook a left. Their house is on the far end of the block, on a corner lot. It’s one of the nicer homes in town, a two-story house with a large yard. Both cars are parked in the driveway, along with one I don’t recognize. It’s one of those big cars that could pass for a boat so I imagine it is one of Dad's friends coming by to see how the old man is doing so they can pass it on to others.
The house is a light blue now. It was white when I was a child. The grass could use some care as it needs mowed and trimmed. I hear a dog yipping and turn around. The house across the street looks like it should be condemned. The grass is almost knee high and several junkers are parked in the front yard. My favorite is an old Chevy truck with a maple tree growing up through the hood. An old beagle that appears to have mange is pinned up in a small cage. He is barking at me, either to try and warn his owners about my presence or asking for my help in releasing him. He stands in the one place that affords him the luxury of not stepping in poop.
Judd Perkins owns this fine property and the dog. He is sitting out on the porch in his rocker, holding his cane in one hand. I’ve always thought he looked like a child molester and my opinion has not changed. Old Judd is not like wine as he obviously has not gotten better with age. He has a perpetual sneer on his face that has always worried me. As far as I know, Judd has never been convicted of any crimes. Charged with several, at least according to Mom, but never convicted. I always stayed away from him as a kid and still like to maintain my distance as an adult.
He's one of the countless old people in this country most of the people have forgotten about and most of the others would like to not know about. Judd wears a pair of overalls, sans a shirt. I notice Judd has put on some weight over the years and notice it looks like a bra would be in order. He’s a hairy man, I notice with much regret, as the grey chest hairs are hanging over the top of his overalls. Judd wears a pair of sandals with black socks on his feet, an interesting fashion statement, along with a blue hat that looks like it has been dunked in a vat of oil.
A razor has not met that face in weeks. He had not bothered to put in his teeth today so his mouth looks like it has caved in. Judd raises a gnarled hand and waves at me, causing the flab that should be the tricep muscles to jiggle like a bowl of jello.
He says something I cannot understand. I wave halfheartedly and walk the rest of the way up the sidewalk. I pause at the door, not sure whether I should go in or ring the doorbell. Technically, it is not my house anymore.
I spend way too much time worrying about this before the door opens. My mother stands before me, looking like she wants to cry. A short woman, she seems to have lost a little of her height. Her hair is perfect, of course, and Mom is dressed like she's fixing to go to church. That's actually how she always dresses so it isn't a surprise.
Her hair is starting to grey, despite the best efforts of her beautician. Seeing me, Mom, tries to smile, but I know it is fake.
“Hello, Michael,” she says. Mom is not a huggy, touchy, kind of person. Neither am I. It is something we know, respect and are comfortable with.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, also trying to fake a smile. I don’t want to be here and she knows it.
She steps aside so I can enter. I am carrying a gym bag with the necessities, a camera bag that holds my Canon and my laptop and nothing more.
The house is the same as it has been all these years. The furniture, smell and look have not changed. I guess for most people that would be comforting. For me, it gives me the chills.
“I’m glad you made it,” she said. Apparently Mom was worried, judging from the five times she called me during the two-hour drive to make sure I had not pulled a U-turn. “This will really mean a lot to your father.”
I had my doubts about that, but did not voice them.
She escorted me through the living room and down the hallway toward their bedroom. The door was closed and we stop.
“You need to prepare yourself,” Mom advised.
“For what?” I asked. I always prepared myself before I had to see my father.
“He’s in bad shape.”
I thought she was getting a little carried away, until I opened the door and saw him.
posted by Craig Hall at 6:47 AM
1 Comments:
In chap. 5 you might think about changing the sentence in which you say that your mother looks as if she is "fixing to go to church" to "she looks as if she is about to leave for church". Just a suggestion.
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