Lloyd and Too Little Too Late

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I just love this true family story, so I am sharing it again. I hope not too many of you have seen it. Many years ago, I had a Cousin Mavis, who’d inherited a really nice farm, together with her brother Beau, in an idyllic mountain valley.  She married Lloyd who greatly admired her farm.  They had a daughter, Sally.  Mavis quickly took issue with her husband’s carousing and tossed him out.  Quite willing and able to take care of herself, she continued to live happily on her farm with her brother Beau and Sally.  Beau did the majority of the farm work while Mavis taught school and kept the house running,   The three of them had a good life together, bumping along quite satisfactorily.  Beau never married though he was happy to keep company with a widow lady, saying, “No house was big enough for two women.”  In truth, I’m sure he felt he already had a wonderful homemaker who shared his expenses, a doting niece, and a prosperous farm he had no wish to divide. Her husband, Lloyd, was never quite reconciled to the divorce, realizing what a mistake he’d made in losing Mavis.  Though he never lost his penchant for women and drink, he bought land just across the road, building a house there so he’d have a chance to worm his way by into Mavis’ affections and be in his his daughter’s life .  Little Sally saw her father daily, just like he’d planned, but Lloyd made a point to keep an eye on what went on at Mavis’s place all the time.  Unfortunately, this gave Mavis a bird’s eye view of his social activities, not a wise move for a man seeking forgiveness from a wronged wife.  Despite his many raucous parties and interesting friendships, he was forever hopeful, lo these many years later, that today Mavis would welcome him back into her loving arms.  Whenever an unfamiliar vehicle drove up, Lloyd was sure to amble over to check the guest out.   The first time we visited her, Mavis said, “Oh Lordy, here comes Lloyd to see if y’all are my boyfriend.” Mavis, Beau, and Lloyd lived this way for more than fifty years, till the lovely Sally finally inherited both places, uniting them, as Lloyd had always hoped.

Miss Ruby and the Bagwells

The companionable thing about growing up in the fifties and sixties in the rural South was that everyone went to the same school and churches and knew everything about everyone.  The teachers at school taught your siblings and cousins and might have taught your parents. If a kid got in trouble at school you can bet his mama would be waiting for him with a switch even though our rural neighborhood had no phone service.

Once the women got the kids off to school, beds made, dishes done, wash on the line, and the beans on to soak for supper, they might have a little time to visit a neighbor for coffee before heading home to get the baby down for a nap, finish their afternoon’s work and get supper on the table.  I loved going to Miss Alice’s house.  She didn’t have kids, so she always made a fuss over us.  Instead of scampering off to play, we usually hung around long enough for her to offer us a snack.  Sometimes it was left over biscuits with butter and jelly or best of all, teacakes.  If I hadn’t been hanging around hoping for a teacake, I wouldn’t have heard about the scandal of Red Bagwell and his brother Floyd. They weren’t the sharpest guys around but got by okay on the little place where their parents raised them. Though they were in their forties, neither had ever married.  I always looked forward to hearing Red talk.  His consonants didn’t always work out.  The way he explained it, “I can’t sound out my rells.” Daddy stopped by one day when Red and Floyd were working on a shed.  Red put on a new door hinge and gestured to Floyd, “ Froyd, git me that rock.”  Floyd looked around, found a good-sized rock, obligingly brought it over, and propped the shed door shut.  Red gave it a kick and barked, “Not a rock!! A damned rock!” stomped over and picked up the lock where he’d laid it out on the ground.  My ears perked up anytime someone mentioned Red and Floyd. It seems Red had somehow snagged a wife.  The three lived in the family home, Miss Ruby fitting in well with the two brothers. She kept house, cooked, cleaned, slopped the hogs, and kept a nice garden.  The three were getting along fine.  She was a fine wife and a healthy-looking woman. Back then, healthy-looking meant she ate like a lumberjack and could wrestle a bear.   As time went on, it seems she was fitting in far too well with both brothers. One day Red rode in to town with Joe Jones to sell a load of turnips, but Floyd felt like he needed to stay home and work on the new hog pen.  When Red and Joe got home, ready for coffee, the doors were locked.  Red knew Ruby and Floyd were both home, because the wash was still on the line, the old truck was there and Floyd’s old dog was under the porch.  Floyd never went anywhere without Ol’ Blue.  Red beat on the front door.  No answer.  He checked the back door.  No answer.  He came back and hammered on the front door again.  Miss Ruby yelled out.  “Git on out of here and quit bangin’ on that door!  Floyd’s tryin’ to take a nap.”  Bewildered, Red squatted outside the front door, muttering to Joe, “umpin ‘oin on in ‘ere.”  Eventually, Floyd finished his “nap,” ambled on out to do chores.  The three did not have a cozy night.  Something like this might have broken up the relationship between most brothers, but Ruby saved the day.  When the feuding brothers got up the next morning, Ruby had eloped with Ol’ Blue and the truck.  As the brothers commiserated over the betrayal and bonded over their losses they worked things out.

Hello

I’m dipping my toe in the water again.

A critter left this strawberry he plucked from my flower/strawberry bed. I’m glad he stopped by. I grow these just for the tiny fellows who share my space.
Critter feeding ground
Mulberry tree the birds and squirrels love
Mulberry vines show promise of fruit to be shared by deer, birds, squirrels, and other local beings
New life in an old stump

The promise of summer

Self-Care

How do you practice self-care?

I try to eat right, stay hydrated, keep active, and spend some time in my yard every day. I wear a sunhat, keep my regular doctor’s appointments, and make a point to do what seems right.

Television

Daily writing prompt
How do you waste the most time every day?
View all responses

I don’t watch much television but I consider it a total waste of time. I don’t think it makes me a better person in any way. My husband would miss it but I’d be fine without one.

Fishing at Vermillion Bay

Andrew and Molly Part 31

Molly’s rage deflated at Aggie’s outburst. Though Aggie had often been sharp-spoken and critical on her arrival, she’d mellowed and become like a mother, especially after Andrew was taken. The relationship changed further after Molly married Wharton and the children started coming. Aggie was simply “Granny” to them, a different status for both of them. Molly couldn’t deny her pride in coming up in the world. Aggie stood her ground but there were some who called Molly uppity and thought she ought to get off her high horse, especially those who had come over on the boat with her and were still struggling under indenture. In truth, Molly was acutely aware that Andrew’s position was lower than Wharton’s had been.

Meanwhile, Andrew recalled his devastation upon his return at finding Molly had been wed and widowed. She’d borne his son and given him another man’s name. He’d spent years suffering humiliation and pain watching for his chance to escape not knowing his old life was already lost to him. He couldn’t deny he’d taken comfort in Sarah, but that fact only complicated his ambiguous situation. Upon seeing the baby at birth, he couldn’t deny it. It was fully white, his child. He couldn’t leave it behind, even knowing it would be unwelcome. He knew he had no right to be angry at Molly but the change in their class angered and shamed him. Legally, he was her bondsman and she’d not yet offered him release nor welcomed him back in her life.

The two stared at each other across the table. The truth of the situation couldn’t be denied. Besides the history between them, they needed each other. Molly’s farm cried out for a man of Andrew’s talents. They shared a son, though he bore another man’s name. Molly had two girls and Andrew had a baby who needed raising.

”What are we to do?” cried Molly.

Aggie was gratified when Andrew wasn’t at her house for breakfast.

Fried Chicken!

Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?

I was fortunate. My mother loved fried chicken. It was the cheapest meat, so we had it two or three times a week. She always served it with mashed potatoes and gravy with big chunks of fried chicken crumbles stirred in. Hot homemade biscuits accompanied every meal. That is one of the finest memories of my life.

He Flipped the Table

(This is a guest post from a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. I hope it gives you pause.)

The room was cold. Not cruel, just… indifferent.

White walls. Bright lights. The hum of fluorescent tubes. Not a chapel. Not a courtroom. Not Hell. Just a windowless, federally contracted execution chamber in the back of a privately run detention center in Texas.

The table was shaped like a cross. Not by design—at least, not officially. A long central plank padded in sterile vinyl, with two short extensions at shoulder height, each outfitted with broad leather restraints.

They laid him down with professional indifference. One guard to each limb. Strap, buckle, cinch. Left arm out, right arm out, body flat against the cold table— arms wide like wings, like surrender, like the very thing he had once been accused of defiling.

He hadn’t touched anyone. He hadn’t carried a weapon. He hadn’t shouted threats.

He flipped a donation kiosk in a megachurch lobby on Easter Sunday. Shattered it like a parable. Then spoke scripture calmly until security tackled him.

The officer who tackled him slipped, drew early, fired wildly. The second officer died instantly.

They called it felony murder.

The trial was swift. The defense was outmatched. The church offered prayers for the officer’s family. And then, quietly, for justice to be done.

It was.

The IV bag hung to his left. Clear. Efficient. The needle entered the inside of his wrist like a nail through open flesh. The nurse’s hands were gloved. His were not.

The straps at his wrists cut slightly into skin. Bloodless. But firm. Cruciform in silence.

A priest had been offered. He declined. The Bible had been offered. He declined.

Only one ritual remained.

“Any last words?” the warden asked. It was policy.

He looked straight up into the overhead lights. Not at the people. Not at the camera. Just at the light itself.

Then he said it:

“Dios mío, Dios mío, ¿por qué me has abandonado?”

No translation was given. No one asked.

The IV hissed. The line emptied. His arms, still outstretched, twitched once. Then stillness.

The technician marked the time.

He was dead.

Three days later, on a bright, clean Sunday, the megachurch was packed.

The new kiosk was reinforced glass, affixed to the floor. The collection bins were digital now. Swipe cards only.

The pastor wore a new mic. Security wore sidearms. A choir sang something upbeat and harmless. The sermon was on grace.

A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve during communion.

“Mama… who was that man? The one who flipped the table?”

Her mother hushed her.

But the question hung there, unanswered. Like a ghost. Like a seed. Like a curtain that never quite closed.

And somewhere deep in the crowd, someone quietly began to cry.