The midland Carolina river road that sliced through Clouds Creek was illuminated by a nearly full moon. Soon it would be a harvest moon, or as daddy called it, a "yokum moon". I never asked him what that meant, so my imagination had conjured up "kinfolk" staring into the indian summer night sky from the vantage point of a swing on the piazza. Why his people called the porch by that name is another mystery. That place would have been the focal point of entertaining as the household and an assortment of guests might volley with words and phrases not recognized by most of the English speaking world. That influence is felt when I am among that other world, like an anthropological find run amok in concrete jungles, I hear those voices and I either hide the speech or fast forward into a semi-geechee accent. I can blend, whether in a slalom around a throng of irritable New York taxis, sharing a bit of craic with an Irish pub owner, or shootin' the bull with a street hustler. I can walk away with my money, humor, AND life intact.The sun has offered it's final dusky bow and I am resisting the beckoning glow of the Waffle House's yellow and black trademark sign. Saturday night, late, on a truck route, nowhere else to eat for the post honky-tonkers clamoring out of the bars before they stagger into their cribs among the government pines. Their satellite dishes set ready like big plates at a family reunion offering everything under the sun. As I pass the shotgun style diner I glimpse the surreal activity inside - a sort of redneck Cirque du Soleil and blend of broken dreams all in one. "Come back to the five and dime", "prop me up next to the jukebox when I die" and rockabilly the night away with pecan waffles and eggs - grits with every order.That luminescent sphere, a herald to the pleasantness of the summer twilight cool - twenty degrees less until mid-morning. I pay homage to this gift by opening my car window to receive unidentifiable fragrances and sounds. I speed through pockets of cool air as I approach creeks, branches, and streams and I am entranced by the hypnotic cadence of tree frogs. These are the same sounds that frightened me as a child sleeping in the old Powell homeplace - great granddaddy's clapboard house with no screens on the open windows and a spooky goat that used to run around the wrap-around porch. Once he chased me into the house through the breezeway that ran through the center of that entire civil war era home. The most dreaded place in that house, besides the clawfoot bathtub with questionable discoloration that I thought, as a child,would run away with me in it, was the kitchen, believe it or not. This is where I thought swamp creatures were prepared and we would be required to consume them with no snurling or gagging. Poor ole Aunt Lillie never learned to cook growing up with servants and probably never tried until she became Uncle Dan's third wife. What I thought was gravy was revealed when mama scooped up a ladle of grease two inches thick which protected a large bowl of hash underneath. I quickly reached for the redeeming bowl of rice and filled my plate while mama watched me cautiously, sympathetically, and dreadfully. Retiring to the parlor was a welcome respite from this wretched repast. Aunt Lillie would play the pump organ and cry while Erik, Shayne, and I sang "Tell Me the Old Old Story" and "The Old Country Church". This Victorian room with the bay type window prevalent in old southern homes looked like something from Petticoat Junction. Jim Butler was Uncle Dan's second wife's brother who was their "drivah". I never saw him do anything else and it took them several hours to get to our house in Powdersville because he was required to drive slowly. He always carried his billed cap in his hand and his gold toothed smile intrigued me as much as his soft geechee accent. Everyone said he was "sweet" on Aunt Annabelle Abrams who also had a gold tooth. She caused a stir among the family when she "paahked" her mobile home in Uncle Dan's yard. "Waitin' to get everthin' when he dies" was the talk. Bless their hearts - they had to eat alot of hash for nothing - the step-daughter got it all. Her son Mr. Bledsoe got the house and land, remodeled, stripping away all the spirit of the old homeplace while preserving the physical building. We take refreshment out on the porch - simply lemonade - yum, give me a big glass mama. I don't know if lemon scented Pine Sol was on the market then but Aunt Lillie concocted something that she should have used on that bathtub. Okay enough of this, no sleep, no food, no drink, sad sing-a-longs with Pearl Bodine. Let's walk across the road to Uncle Bud and Aunt Kate's, who haven't spoken to the other folks in years. They live with daddy's old maid cousin Helen and Brownie, the country chihuahua. Uncle Bud was sitting in his truck when we arrived. He said, "Lurris, ya wanna go dawn t'da wallamellon patch?" We boys jump in the back of the truck expecting a long country road journey. Uncle Bud drives directly behind the house and stops.........this is it? Aunt Kate fills her kitchen with the best smelling and tasting southern cooking but doesn't cook in abundance. Mama whispers for us not to "take out" too much. Aunt Kate cooks on a woodstove even though she has an electric one. Once Aunt Kate fired up the stove and didn't know her cat had climbed in the oven.....FELINE MIGNON!! Aunt Kate and Helen had a pet cemetery and had each grave was circled with little rocks. Another relative who flipped everyone off when she died as she left her estate to her animals. Kate and Bud had a son named Bubba ( I swannee that is right) and his wife's name was Mickey who lived across the road also. Mickey was a career woman they said with mocking tone or pride, I couldn't figure. What career in these parts, Mary Kay Million Dollar Seller? No pink cadillac to show for it, unless she had a model one of Elvis'. Vivacious Helen, the "old maid" stayed with her parents until she died of cancer. She worked at the only mill in town and received very few mourners at her funeral at the very small mortuary. The service was held in a small room with us seated in chairs that didn't even match. From the nonactivity on the road to the dress rehearsal funeral, I expected to see Rod Serlling standing aside espousing a provocative moral fitting to this Stepford scene. I step back from this black/white memory into a shaded one as I hear Bubba Jr. (Wayne Powell) telling Uncle Bud "Gran-diddy, come ovah heah and sit in a chaah with ahms - ya need a chaah with ahms." I knew that not only was this the beginning of our disappearing history but it would leave a big absence soon. I had the opportunity then to appreciate the legacy and snatch my heritage immemorial. The spirits of generations can be felt among those homes, graves, and churches.Uncle Herman Dowd was Chief of Police in Johnston SC. I couldn't wait to see this icon of family lore. I expected a Rod Steiger "In the Heat of the Night" type but actually encountered a much more colorful reality. There a uniformed robust gent leaned back in a cane bottom chair against, I presumed, the police station. It looked more like a sentry's guard house and set curiously next to the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the strip of businesses on main street. On the other side of the rails big houses followed the road into deeper country. These weren't plantation homes per se so I wondered how the families that built them supported their construction financially.Everyone is gone now, then, we were modern children visiting something foreign and dispensable. Now, more than 30 years later, we have become the history that is to be told, treasured, and longed for.
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