I was only semi-surprised there was no security checkpoint at the entrance to the park. The only sort of inspection was an older man and woman who stood ten feet inside the open gate. They stared at me warily. From head to toe. I guess they didn’t approve of my outfit. Neither did I, other than for 58 Ansonia Road, New Haven, Connecticut, aka home.
After my plane landed in Birmingham, I tired of my suit. I found a men’s restroom and changed into my favorite jogging shorts and a Bella’s tee-shirt the owner had given me for my faithful patronage. I didn’t know how Charlie and Jeannette (per their name tags) viewed my Yale Law School hooded jacket, the one I’d pulled on in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.
Finally, Jeannette spoke, “welcome weary traveler.” I don’t know how she knew. “Are you here for the gospel singing or to assist with the Nativity scene?” Charlie turned toward the amphitheater when a band started, ‘Love Lifted Me.’ He quickly drifted away.
“Thanks, but I’m looking for my sister. Kyla Harding’s her name. She’s working the refreshments table.”
“Never heard of her.” At least the woman had good ears.
Before I could ask for directions, Jeannette revealed her skills as a food critic. “Try the Deviled Egg Pie. Brenda’s the bomb.” There was too much here to unpack, so I ignored it other than making a mental note to ask sis about Brenda’s infatuation with the Devil.
I finally clawed directional help from the delightful blue-haired Jeannette.
As I walked away, she literally hollered at me, “hey hiker.” I’d forgotten I’d changed into my comfortable brogans. “Here’s your ticket.”
Long story short. I retraced my steps. The sleek looking red and green ticket offered free admittance to the community wide Thanksgiving meal hosted by First Baptist Church of Christ. The green side, in bold, simply said: “Community Celebration. God is Good.” On the bottom right corner, not so big and bold, were the words, “See over.”
On the red side were details concerning the day and time (Thanksgiving Day, 12:00 noon), location (the Family Life Center at the corner of Sparks and Elm streets), clothing requirements (long slacks, a loose-fitting shirt or blouse, and clean shoes), cost (zero), and one request (after eating, please stay for a short devotional).
I smiled and tucked the ticket inside my coat pocket, thinking I’d give it to Kyla. Maybe she would invite someone, but that didn’t seem likely, although she could ask that nice man who had brought her those five Nubian goats. The goat man.
Thankfully, I’d be alone, eating my pre-ordered meal from Bella’s, sitting comfortably in my Lazy Boy, watching the Detroit Lions mangle the Houston Texans. The Lions? Not likely. That was before I remembered my promise to Kent.
***
There were two pavilions. Given the crowd, I could see the rooftops of both, but Jeanette hadn’t been clear which one was the refreshments site. I passed several vendor tables on my left and quickly decided each of them was promoting a particular church organization: WMU (Women’s Mission Union); GA’s (Girl’s in Action); RA’s (Royal Ambassadors); Awana (Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed), and on and on.
A new band was being introduced at the amphitheater. This caused several people blocking the sidewalk to sidle onto the grass in anticipation of their brand of music. Now, I could see the first pavilion. Not my target. From a hundred feet away, it appeared to be the work base for the nativity scene project. One man was using a skill saw to rip a sheet of plywood while another held it. Two other men were supervising, with backs leaning against brick columns.
I continued toward the second pavilion and recalled Wednesday’s conversation with Micaden Tanner after his secretary had emailed final approval of my motion. His willingness to talk had come as a surprise, given our earlier encounters.
He’d opened the door by stating, “Lee, I hope you’ve not set your sights too high. It’s doubtful your motion will do much good. At most, it might delay the inevitable for a couple of weeks.”
I’d asked why he felt that way. Funny, his explanation had started with these two damn pavilions. Initially, the plans had called for true pavilions, not the two tiny structures that housed male and female restrooms with a porch out front, maybe a twenty-four-foot square. Hardly big enough for a family reunion.
Micaden had said the same thing had happened with the amphitheater. “You know it’s not truly an amphitheater.” Again, what started out in the architectural plans as a sloping, semicircular seating gallery had dwarfed into a small concrete stage maybe two feet off the ground, with no sloping, and no seating. It required fans to bring their own lawn chairs to sit on the level ground in front of the little stage.
By now I could see sis buzzing back and forth behind three long tables, handing out cellophane-wrapped brownies, fudge squares, and peanut brittle. The Deviled Egg Pie was nowhere in sight.
I waved when she looked my way and kept walking, still in disbelief at what Micaden had claimed: Ray Archer had made a million dollars on Old Mill Park. Somehow, he had gained ownership of the real estate that once housed Boaz Spinning Mill. This had taken place just a few months before the groundbreaking. Micaden supposedly had a keen nose for rats. He believed the City of Boaz was in dire financial straits, mainly because Ray Archer was a double-dipper, one enabled by an untrustworthy mayor.
***
Kyla saw me staring when I was ten feet away. She was in process of handing a very obese middle-aged woman a small paper sack stuffed with goodies she certainly didn’t need. Sis gave me a circular wave and asked, “are you planning on sleeping in the barn?”
I kept walking, laughed, then reached out my right hand to shake since she was standing behind the tables. It was best since I wasn’t much of a hugger. “I didn’t expect to come to the revival when I changed clothes in Birmingham.”
“You look tired. Here, have a cookie.” She held out a rice Krispie square wrapped in cellophane. I guess ‘cookie’ covers a lot of ground. “Oh, before I forget. Your key.” Kyla said, reaching into her tight blue jeans. I took it and stuffed it inside my jacket beside the red and green ticket.
Kyla had put on some weight since I’d seen her a year ago at Rachel’s funeral. But my tall, red-headed, younger sister was still cute, not pretty, just cute. I’d always loved her freckles.
Suddenly, “Victory in Jesus” exploded from the stage. The voices were vaguely familiar. “How long do you have to work?” I asked, gathering data to estimate when I needed to be home. Per my iPhone, it was nearly 8:30 PM.
“Ten, I think.” I could barely hear above the ramped-up sound system. Kyla pressed her emerald eyes into mine and asked, “do you remember Mountain Top Trio?”
I thought for a minute. I semi-yelled, “from high school. A few years younger than us?”
Kyla nodded affirmatively and walked around to the front of the table beside me. The sweet seekers had suddenly disappeared after ‘the old, old story’ began. We exchanged hugs, me reluctantly, and she whispered in my ear, “the group singing is second generation, sons of the three we knew.” We both slowly spun toward the stage, each leaving a hand around the other’s waist. I was rarely this chummy.
Then I heard a voice behind us. It was one I’d never forget. “Kyla, where’s the last box of peanut brittle?” Again, sis and I made 180 degree turns, this time without the sibling affection. Standing behind pie slices, fudge squares, cookies, and a dozen other sweet delectables stood Lillian Bryant. For a second, I saw the younger version, the silky brown-haired girl with bluish-green eyes, built better than any fashion model. In my imagination, L (that’s what I called her during the second half of high school) was seventeen and we’d exchanged our first kiss.
After what seemed like an hour, a man I hadn’t noticed asked, “do you have any more peanut brittle or not?” My mind quickly slotted the well-dressed man into the impatient category.
I reentered earth’s atmosphere, now aware that Kyla had walked behind the tables and was scavenging through a stack of boxes piled haphazardly on yet another makeshift table.
Until sis found the missing Brittle, the two-way staring between L and me didn’t stop. I guess it was our way of digesting the past half-century.
Kyla gave L a nudge and said, “that Brittle-seeker wants to know if you’ve seen Ray.”
Lillian finally gathered herself, turned, and responded. “I thought he was with you. Didn’t you two eat at The Shack?”
“We did, but he said he was coming here to the festival.” The man dressed himself in an expensive navy-blue suit and a still tight-around-the-neck yellow and green-striped tie. He was wearing a pair of black, high-priced shoes. I think they were Oxford Leather’s.
“Mr. Ted, you should know by now Ray Archer is a little unpredictable. He might be out evangelizing.” I couldn’t tell if L was being sarcastic. Years ago, that had been a favorite past-time.
The exchange between Mr. Ted and L got heated. I was glad Kyla suggested we take a walk. “That was Mayor King. If you were wondering.”
“I take it they’re not best of friends.”
“Right on.”
The Pencil-Driven Life 