Prologue
Kaden Tanner was awakened by a phone call at 6:00 a.m. Monday morning. It was his father, Lewis, telling him his grandfather had passed away. Micaden Lewis Tanner was dead at 96, twelve days short of his 97th birthday. Claire, his live-in caregiver, had found him at 5:00 a.m. sitting in his bedroom chair when she brought him his morning coffee. There was no sign of struggle. It appeared he had just gone to sleep.
Lewis shared how he had spoken over the phone with his father last night as he did every night. He heard nothing that alarmed him. He was encouraged. Micaden had said his cold was better and he and Claire were driving to Huntsville today to take in the City’s Christmas lights.
Kaden told his father he would book a flight to Huntsville but could be delayed. Last night, both LaGuardia and Reagan Airports canceled flights in and out of New York City because of a blinding snowstorm. Lewis encouraged Kaden to try his best to arrive in Boaz before 9:00 a.m. Wednesday morning if possible, reminding him that Micaden might be dead, but his control continued. Nearly five years ago, Micaden had announced his funeral plans. Actually, he had shared his lack of funeral plans. He had asked to be cremated without any type of service or memorial, with his ashes scattered over his garden. At the same time, Micaden had revealed that he had instructed his law partners to choreograph an old-fashioned, will-reading ceremony three days after he passed.
After hanging up with his father, Kaden lay back and reminisced. Nearly a century before, 1954 to be exact, Micaden Lewis Tanner was born in a small country home, three miles outside Boaz, Alabama. His parents were hardworking Scots-Irish Americans with his father toiling at Boaz Spinning Mills by night and, between naps, helping Micaden’s Mother and his grandparents maintain a farm by day—all, simply to eke out a living. Micaden had an uneventful youth throughout his elementary and secondary school days up until the night of his Boaz High School graduation. Kaden decided not to even think about that.
Micaden was a decent athlete and an excellent student at Boaz High School. He graduated in 1972 and went on to Emory University in Atlanta earning an undergraduate degree in English. In 1980, he completed his law degree from Emory’s School of Law. Micaden practiced law in Atlanta with the firm of Downs, Gambol, and Stevens for nearly twenty years before returning to Boaz and joining Matt Bearden’s law practice. After a few years of general practice, Micaden found his passion to be criminal defense. Until 2045 when he retired, Micaden was an accomplished and highly sought-after capital murder defense attorney all throughout North and Central Alabama.
Kaden recalled his growing up years. He and his Father lived in a mobile home on the backside of Hickory Hollow, Micaden’s hundred-acre farm eight miles outside Boaz. Lewis’s wife, Kaden’s mother, had been killed in a car wreck leaving Lewis to raise two-year-old Kaden. Lewis did the best he could but his truck-driving job took him out of town, usually just for the work week, but sometimes two or more weeks at a time. Micaden and his wife Karla became Kaden’s parents by default. Kaden believed he received a dual education living with his grandparents. Micaden encouraging him to think critically, and Karla inspiring him to root his life in the Christian faith.
Kaden’s flight was delayed until late Tuesday night but arrived at Huntsville International Airport at midnight. He drove his rental car to Boaz and Hickory Hollow. He crept inside and up to his old room without waking his Father. At 7:30 a.m., he awoke to the smell of bacon, cheese-eggs, and burnt toast. He and Lewis ate a hardy breakfast and speculated what, if any, surprises Micaden may have waiting for them at the law offices of Bearden, Tanner, Nixon, and Martin.
The first surprise was Micaden’s choice to leave Hickory Hollow to Kaden rather than Lewis. Instead, Lewis received the lake house in Guntersville and enough cash to greatly improve his retirement years. Kaden knew Lewis was not disappointed with his Father’s wishes. According to Micaden, Lewis had never been a true outdoorsman. He had preferred fishing and sailing more than gardening, wood-splitting, and raising cattle and horses. The second surprise was a bequest to Kaden of 80 acres described as Oak Hollow. Neither Kaden nor Lewis had ever heard of it. The last surprise Attorney Trevor Nixon read was Micaden’s bequest to Kaden of a safety deposit box at The Exchange Bank of Gadsden. Lewis and Kaden had both known about and had access to Micaden’s box at First State Bank of Boaz. But again, neither had heard of the box in Gadsden. Nixon handed Kaden a key to the Gadsden box.
After leaving the law office Kaden dropped his Father off at Hickory Hollow and drove to Gadsden. The safety deposit box contained a letter and a book. The author of The Boaz Scorekeeper was Micaden Lewis Tanner. Kaden removed the book and turned to the copyright page, noticing the book had been self-published in 2046. He laid the book on a small table, took out the letter, and sat down to read. Kaden recognized his Grandfather’s writing on the outside of the envelope, “Kaden Lewis Tanner.”
The letter was also hand-written by Micaden: “Kaden, I trust you continue to prosper in New York as an intellectual property attorney and an aspiring writer. Well, life is over for me. If it weren’t, you wouldn’t be reading this letter. We both know what a wonderful relationship we have always had, especially throughout your growing up years. I believe it was built day by day as you grew up and we spent time talking as we enjoyed the outdoors at Hickory Hollow. Our ability to be open with each other allowed us to explore topics that most people run from, but now I must confess. I have not been totally forthright with you and I am ashamed. By reading The Boaz Scorekeeper you will learn things about me that will shock you. My hope is that you can come to understand why I did what I did. I ask you to keep this book and its contents secret but it is your choice. By the way, you have the only copy of my book. I love you Kaden and hope you keep pursuing your own life’s meaning.”
Another bank customer came into the vault. Kaden pushed the book and the letter into the leather bag he had brought with him. He left the bank and drove to Hickory Hollow, greeted a half-sleeping Lewis on the couch in the den, and went to Micaden’s book-filled library to read The Boaz Scorekeeper.
Chapter 1
I am Micaden Lewis Tanner. This is my life story. As you read, please keep in mind that I write legal memorandums and briefs, and scribble out a few short stories. However, I am not a novelist. But, don’t think that I don’t have a story to tell.
“Micaden, ‘vengeance is mine saith the Lord.’ You have been playing long enough. Pastor Gorham will be here in less than an hour.” Mom called out as she unpinned towels and underwear from the clothesline just off the back porch.
“Just a little longer. I promise I’ll be ready before he gets here.”
Gramp’s and I had finished feeding and milking before 5:00 and he was already dozing in his chair under the big oak in our backyard. I had played ‘Shoot to Kill’ two times already. It was more fun when Mama El was here to narrate but she was too busy cooking her cobbler. I ran to the barn with time to play one more time.
Bam, bam, bam, three shots rang out from the front yard. I was finishing my chores in the barn. I flung the pitchfork onto bales of hay and ran around the side of the house.
Daddy was lying in a pool of blood and an army of huge men were standing behind a big black Ford. With his last breath Daddy said, “Micaden, trouble has come, be brave, I love you.”
I grabbed Daddy’s rifle and started shooting. In fact, I picked up my slingshot and started knocking over oil cans lined up across the hood of an old and disabled Chevy. Nobody was a better shot than me.
The men kept shooting at me and they kept missing. When it was over, three men lay dead, and two more were begging for their lives. It was not until I walked over closer that I could tell they were police officers, and my friend Billy Baker was in the back seat of their vehicle.
All six years of my life I had heard how James David Kilpatrick, the sixteen-year-old son of Aubrey Kilpatrick, had meted out justice to the men who had gunned down his father in cold blood. That event had taken place less than a mile from where I stood. It happened in 1951 and James had only recently been released from prison. Both Gramp’s and my Father had shared this story with me since I was a baby.
I may be wrong but I think they were trying to teach me life isn’t always fair and to be ready to defend those you love when the law seems unconcerned.
“Micaden Lewis Tanner, get in here now and wash up, Brother Gorham will be here in ten minutes,” Mama El hollered from the front porch.
I gathered up my smooth stones scattered around the yard and went inside.
All my life Mother had cooked supper once per month for our pastor, Gabriel Gorham. He was tall and thin with sandy blond hair and never without his thick wire rim glasses. He always wore a black suit, white shirt, and a gold tie. He and his family had moved to the Arona Community in 1949 from Selma to shepherd Clear Creek Baptist Church. Tonight, his wife stayed home with their four children and a bushel of measles.
Mother, Gramp’s, Mama El, Brother Gorham, and I sat down to one of Mom’s feasts: half a dozen fried, steamed, baked, and broiled vegetables, sugar-cured smoked ham, Mama’s El’s sourdough bread, and her first prize blackberry cobbler. Dad was at the spinning mill.
Gramp’s said our blessing and we dug in. After what seemed too long a span of silence I spoke up, “Brother G,” that’s what he insisted all us kids call him, “why was James Kilpatrick sent to prison?”
Before he could respond Mom interrupted, “honey, why don’t we let Pastor Gorham enjoy his food?”
“Thanks Mary, I don’t mind, and by the way, everything is superb, excellent as always.” Turning to me Brother G said, “Micaden, I suspect you are referring to the 1951 incident where James shot and killed three law enforcement officers, correct?”
“Yes, Gramp’s said James has just been set free from prison.”
“Paroled.” Gramp’s said.
“Your question is a difficult one, especially so if you consider it from a theological viewpoint. The answer to your question boils down to the facts, what happened the night of May 17, 1951. There’s usually always two sides to every story but the Prosecutor argued that James had no legal right to shoot the officers because his father was breaking the law when he started firing. Defense attorneys Rogers and Brown had a very different take. They contended James had no idea he was shooting at the police. All he knew was he heard gunfire, ran around the corner of his house, saw his father laying in a pool of blood, and could see an unmarked vehicle with several men standing around with guns blazing.”
“I think James was innocent.” I said.
“I agree with you, but I wasn’t there nor at his trial. Again, the answer to your question depends on the facts, the truth of what actually happened.” Brother G said.
“What does God say about killing?” Gramp’s spoke up.
I could tell Mother was getting a little perturbed. “Mama El, why don’t you pass Pastor Gorham another slice of ham.”
“The Bible has much to say about civil disobedience, including illustrations of when the taking of another life is permitted, not sin that is. It speaks of war. You have heard me preach many times on David and the giant Goliath. Then, there’s self-defense. Which is what I think James was doing, protecting his family against an evil that had descended in the dark around his home and family. In a couple of weeks, I’m preaching on Acts 5:29 where Peter says, ‘we must obey God rather than men.’ Maybe, that would be a good time to expand on my remarks here. Yes, I think I will attempt to answer your question. Thanks, Micaden for asking it. Now, I can’t wait for Mama El’s blackberry cobbler.”
I kept my mouth shut the remainder of our meal. I sure wanted to hear Brother G talk about justice but instead I ate nearly two bowls of cobbler made from the blackberries me and Mama El had picked right after I finished my morning chores.
Brother G left a little before dark knowing I wouldn’t go to bed until he was gone. Tomorrow was my first day of school. Boaz Elementary was over three miles away and my school bus would be here at 6:30. I had to be standing out by the mailbox by 6:20 in case it was early. My 4:30 chore-time didn’t go away now that I was a student. I had to get to sleep.
But, I couldn’t, not for over an hour. I lay still for a minute and tossed for three, over and over it seemed. I felt both strong and weak. I wasn’t worried in the least about learning and completing my school assignments. Mother had me well prepared. From the time I was born, she had read to me. I started reading to myself at age 3. I knew my alphabet and could count like a fifth grader, according to Mom.
I also believed I was strong enough, brave enough, to deal with trouble if it came to me. No doubt it would. This is what Aubrey Kilpatrick had said according to Gramp’s. The story was that he had taught his oldest son James never to go looking for trouble. He wouldn’t have to because it would always find its way to him. When it did, don’t run but face it head-on and fear no man.
After an hour I was finally still, and halfway asleep. The last thought I had before consciousness collapsed was of a shepherd boy named David choosing five smooth stones, approaching and conversing with a giant named Goliath, and bravely declaring, “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you defied. This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head.”
Chapter 2
I was born January 1, 1954 to Billy Joe and Mary Sue Tanner. Until I moved to Atlanta in 1973 for college, we lived on a 40-acre farm, in a two-story, Amish style house, three miles east of Boaz in the Arona community. It was my grandfather’s birthplace. My grandparents, Frank and Elma Tanner, had lived there all their married life working the farm and caring for his widowed mother until her death in 1953. My parents married and moved in with Gramp’s and Mama El in 1944 when Dad returned from Italy after the Army discovered he was only 16 when he enlisted.
My parents were the hardest working folks I have ever known. My Dad was a weaver at Boaz Spinning Mills, working six nights a week from 10:30 p.m. until 6:30 a.m. He then returned home to help my Mother complete the early morning farm work that she and I started before sunrise. By 9:30, Dad had finished his chores and breakfast and had gone upstairs to sleep for five or six hours before rejoining my Mother somewhere on our 40 acres to toil until 6:00 p.m., to then catch his ride to Boaz with neighbor and co-worker Calvin Conners.
Mother, a city girl from Albertville, knew nothing of farming but had no choice but to learn fast. After marrying, Mother spent a month with Gramp’s learning how to grow chickens, plant and maintain a garden, hoe cotton, and a dozen other tasks before his Diabetes cost him a leg and sent him to Gadsden to rehab for three months. Although short on experience she was extremely long on patience and determination. For as long as I can remember, the legend was that on Christmas Eve morning 1946 my Dad had come home tired and unusually depressed spouting threats that they should pack their bags and move to Detroit for him to make ‘good money’ at General Motors, and that he just couldn’t continue working two jobs for so little results. The story goes that Mother rolled out her own threat. “If I ever again hear you say that you are quitting, that you can’t do something, then I’m leaving you for good. Do you understand?” Losing Mother would have destroyed Dad. She was the light of his life. The story goes that Dad never breathed the ‘can’t’ word again. It was also the only time that I heard of him being depressed.
Gramp’s had started growing chickens for Boaz Poultry Company in 1932. The Depression was gaining momentum every day. Gramp’s had two neighbors who were pleased with their eight-year-old decision to build two specially designed buildings that housed thousands of chickens from the time they were just a few days old. He didn’t make the decision easily since it was the first time the home place had ever been mortgaged. In the end, Gramp’s believed it really wasn’t much of a risk when you compared it to the only other option which was to starve to death or quit farming altogether. It turned out his decision was a good one. The two poultry houses stabilized the farm, and later gave Mother a job and the ability to always be home when I was there.
My first memory of Saturdays as a kid was when I was three years old, at least that’s what Mama El told me. After breakfast, she took me to our garden and taught me how to pick peas. She told me I could tell when to pull them from the vines by looking at the plumpness of the pod, their hardness, and by their color. She made me watch her pick half a basket of Crowder peas before she let me pull one. Then, she taught me about peppers and tomatoes, and returned to the house. That Saturday, I picked two bushels of peas, and a basket full of tomatoes. I left the peppers alone, thinking they were not quite ready but also thinking Mama El might be testing my judgment. Compared to most every other Saturday I remember, that first working Saturday was a vacation. Normally, I was up and out by 4:30 a.m. helping Mother in the broiler houses, although I was often doing this by myself by age 10 if Mother had garden vegetables to can and freeze. After this task was completed, I worked in our corn field, milked Molly our cow, castrated pigs if we had a new litter, cut, split, and stacked firewood, and mended fences. If all this didn’t fill up my Saturday there was always something Mother and Mama El needed help with either in the garden or on the back porch shelling peas, snapping green beans, or cutting corn off the cob. During cold weather, we always had four hogs to slaughter, butcher, and ready for grinding into sausage, or for salting-down in the big wooden meat box. I was only six when Gramp’s let me use his Marlin lever-action 22 Rifle to kill a 400-pound hog just right to have it fall over on the big wood sled we used to scald off the hog’s hair. Saturdays were always work days on the farm until I went off to college.
Mother said she got her grit and determination from God. I’m 91 now and have never seen a more God-fearing person. I’ve been told that I was only three days old when I made my first appearance at Clear Creek Baptist Church. This was Mother’s doing no doubt. From then until I started attending First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz when I was in the tenth grade, Mother made sure I was in church every Sunday morning and night, and every Wednesday night. But, attendance was only the minimum requirement. Mother read the Bible to me since I was born and made sure I had my daily devotion and prayer time for thirty minutes before I went to bed at night, although there were times that I forgot. And, reading my Sunday School lesson was even more important than completing my homework which, according to Mother, I would never be able to choose to work and live away from the farm unless I completed every single assignment in full. In math, she always demanded I write out every step of the calculation no matter how simple it was. As for Dad, he was not against God, Christianity, and the Church but chose to remain relatively silent while letting Mother and Brother G be my spiritual guides.
Brother G was, as I learned after I begin attending the big church in town, a Christian Fundamentalist. He, without doubt, believed the Bible was written by God Himself and that obviously, there was no error in any verse throughout its sixty-six books. To him, and me until many years later, God had been around a long time, forever in fact. He created the world in six literal days and made man in His image. Out of His love He sent His Son, born of a virgin, to die for the sins of all mankind, and to be resurrected forever to welcome believing sinners to His presence after death or His return in the clouds, whichever came first. God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, the Trinity, were all the same and all different. That was confusing, but I believed whatever Brother G told me. I never questioned him because he spoke the truth, the truth that comes only from the Bible. I read my Bible most every day, said my prayers, and lived as though the Holy Trinity was watching my every move and hearing my every thought. Throughout my growing up years I loved God with all my heart. That’s what I was taught to do. It was real. God was real to me. I believed He walked with me and talked with me. Without Brother G and Mother, I would have drunk moonshine, smoked cigarettes, and got naked with girls. Only by God’s grace, did I walk the high road to life and peace.
No matter what road I walked throughout my life I always had fond memories of my growing-up Sunday afternoons. Often Clear Creek Baptist Church had ‘dinner on the ground.’ After Brother G’s voice boomed his last and hoarse gasp, the ladies moved the towel-covered dishes filled with choice casseroles, vegetables, breads, pies, and cakes, from the small kitchen at the back of the church outdoors, laid tablecloths on the long concrete table that the men had built on the creek side of the church years before I was born, and spread a collection of food that would outrank the biggest Baptist churches in North Alabama.
After eating two days’ worth of food, me and every boy and girl out of diapers would take to the grass-barren field beyond the creek to play whatever sport was in season. From baseball to football to basketball. And, starting in 1959, to soccer, after a family of Hispanics moved in the old Elkins’ home place. Sometimes we played until it was time to go back inside for Training Union with Sister G, Brother G’s wife. Other than the absolute minimum chores that had to be done, Sundays were for worshiping God and relaxing. I dearly loved Sundays.
Chapter 3
I started Boaz Elementary School in mid-August 1960. I remember the first day. Mr. Chambers’ Bus #9 stopped at our mailbox at 6:30 a.m. and I stepped into another world. I had figured I might be one of the first on the bus since it was so early. I was wrong. Scattered around the front half of the bus were my neighborhood friends, all friendly, polite, clean-mouthed, and evidencing the six years of Bible teaching and tough love poured out on us by Brother G. The back half of the bus was overflowing with the heathen. I didn’t know any of them, but soon learned they all were sons and daughters of a group of tenant farmers just north of Double Bridges. From the front of the bus, I could see their dirty faces and torn clothing as they stood in the aisle way or sat on the back of the bench seats. And, the worst part, I could hear the filth spewing from their mouths, dirty words, half of which I had never heard. I was glad to find a seat beside Billy Baker in the front row right behind a bus-driver that seemed oblivious to everything around him.
I was lucky. Only one of the heathen clan wound up in Mrs. Gillespie’s first grade class. Frankie Olinger didn’t stand a chance against this beautiful soul who welded words like swords if the need arose. That first morning, before the first bell rang, this Godly saint had Frankie, with clean hands, arms, and face, facing the overgrown black-board, sitting straight-back in a student’s desk, right beside her own giant oak desk at the front of the room. I don’t know what she said to him in the coat room as she unwound his cockiness from the moment we all walked in from the bus. The other bus riders, being older than me, went to separate rooms. Only Billy Baker and myself, and Frankie Olinger, wound up in Mrs. Gillespie’s room. I quickly learned that the other 24 students were city kids who probably had never hoed a row of cotton, pulled an ear of corn, castrated a single pig, or eaten a boiled rabbit leg.
By the end of the first week, I knew I was already miles ahead of most everyone in the room when it came to reading and writing. Mother had made sure this would be the case. However, there was a group of five boys who ran a close second. It didn’t take long the first day of school for me to learn that they were from five prominent Boaz families. They made sure everyone around them knew their fathers were a big-church pastor, a home-owned bank president, a rich car-dealer, a more-rich hardware and building supply owner, and a most-rich real estate developer. By the end of the first week, these five, Wade Tillman, Fred Billingsley, James Adams, Randall Radford, and John Ericson, semi-included me in a group they were contemplating allowing in their small circle of friends. Including me, like anyone else, was strictly strategic. I was as big or bigger than any of them except Randall, and I was smart. Even at six years old these five had already learned the art of the deal from the feet of their fathers, the masters of a booming but clannish town. Out of this group, my pick was Fred Billingsley. He was the quietest of the bunch and seemed to appreciate me helping him solve a simple arithmetic problem after lunch on Thursday, our fourth day of carving out a new life. Several years later I would find out he was a little different from the other four members of his group.
Other than enduring the body odor and foul mouths of the Double Bridges gang during my bus rides to and from school, my life for the next five years was maybe the best time so far. I did extremely well in school. My faith in God grew by leaps and bounds all thanks to Brother G, and life at home with Dad and Mom, Mama El, and Gramp’s laid down deep abiding lessons of how a bi-vocational lower-income family could exchange touches of love amidst the long hours of caring for chickens, tending a gigantic garden, and cultivating 30 acres of corn and cotton.
My world came tumbling down at the end of my Fifth-grade year. It was during Spring Break. Gramp’s and I were fishing in our pond, one he had helped his father build with a pair of overgrown mules two years before the turn of the century. It was late afternoon and after we had caught a stringer full of Brim, everyone as big as one of Gramps’ hands. I was walking around the shallow end of the pond casting my line out into the middle without a float trying to snag a catfish laying on the bottom of the pond. Gramp’s was fishing from the center of the dam, sitting under the outstretched limbs of a hundred-year-old oak.
Just as the sun sank behind the row of Loblolly Pines on the west side of the pond my fishing pole jerked out of my hand. I had to scramble to keep from losing it. I grabbed it right before it slithered into the edge of the pond. It took me what seemed like an hour to haul in the ten-pound catfish. When I had it off my hook and safely away from the pond’s edge, I held it up and hollered, “Look Gramp’s, bet you never caught one this big.” For some reason, I had not looked over towards Gramp’s during the whole time I was dealing with the big Cat. When he didn’t respond to my ribbing was when I saw something I will never forget. Gramp’s was lying on his side with his face next to the water’s edge.
I dropped the Cat and raced to Gramp’s. When I reached him, I thought he had died. His face was towards me and his eyes were closed. I managed somehow to turn him over and around, with his head now higher than his feet. I remember I almost let him roll into the pond. I put my ear to his mouth and nose and could tell he was still breathing. Then, he opened his eyes. “Gramp’s, what’s wrong?” I said.
Barely audible he managed to say, “It’s my heart, I’m dying.”
“No Gramp’s you can’t die. I’m going to get help.”
“Micaden, it’s no use. Stay with me, please.” Gramp’s said with a tear running down his left cheek.
By now it was nearly dark. We had brought a kerosene lantern and I used a match from my pocket that Gramp’s always made me carry. The light revealed the hollowness and distance in his eyes. I was only eleven years old but had seen enough death in the eyes of piglets and calves, even rabbits and squirrels, to realize I was losing the one person who I loved more than anyone in the world. I almost felt ashamed thinking this because I dearly loved my Mom, my Dad, and my Mama El. Gramp’s and I had something unique. Dad didn’t have a lot of time for me with working two jobs. Gramp’s was always at home and it was there, at the house and farm, that we were together most every minute of the day when I wasn’t in school or in church.
“Don’t die Gramp’s. I can’t live without you.”
“Listen to me Micaden. You are stronger than you think. You can do whatever you set out to do, but stay true to God. Don’t go looking for trouble, it’ll find you. But, don’t run from it when it comes. Fight it head on. Don’t be fooled by the world. It might not be what you think it is.” It took Gramp’s five attempts and at least ten minutes to say these words.
“I promise you I will. Gramp’s, I need to get help.” I said, tears running down my cheeks, my heart racing with fear.
And, that was it. Gramp’s stopped breathing, his mouth fixed open like he was a baby bird waiting for its mother to drop in some food. But, it was his eyes that I will never forget. Still hollow, glassy, now lifeless. I sat and stared into his open eyes for minutes before running back across the knee-high corn, through the pasture gate, across the Bermuda pasture, and around the garden to the back porch of our house.
As I ran, I recall thinking that Gramps’ spirit was with Jesus. But, I hadn’t seen any sign of that when I considered his eyes and face. I had heard Brother G preach many a sermon on how at death the body returns to the dust of the ground but the soul is immediately in the presence of our living Savior. Just like the calf we had lost at birth only three weeks earlier, Gramp’s was dead. But, unlike that calf, someday, at Jesus’ Second Coming, Gramp’s would rise with a new body and fly to glory to be reunited with His spirit at the right hand of the Father. For now, and probably for the rest of my life, I would never walk alongside Gramp’s as he strolled through our two chicken houses looking for dead birds. I would never sit next to him at our oak dinner table. I would never watch him plant a garden or pull ten ears of corn to my one, even if he did have only one leg. Death had descended and Gramp’s was gone.
Mother and Mama El were both coming out the kitchen door onto the back porch when I screamed, “Gramp’s is dead.”
Chapter 4
There were no frills or extras around the Tanner household and farm. Except one. While in the Army my Dad had fallen in love with GMC trucks. I remember him and Gramp’s talking about the ‘Deuce-and-a-half.’ This was a GMC model CCKW350 series, two and a half-ton 6×6 truck. Dad said that it was ‘as stout as a tank and sexier than your mother.’
In 1954, Dad was working six nights a week at Boaz Spinning Mills and was investing nearly as many hours helping Mother, Mama El, and Gramp’s run the farm. But, he still couldn’t afford a ‘Deuce-and-a-half.’ Of course, he didn’t need a truck anywhere near that big. He knew that too but always joked about coming home with one after a hard night at the Mill.
The story goes that at 9:30 a.m. in late February, less than two months after I was born, Dad drove home in a like-new 1951 half-ton GMC 4 x 4 pickup. By then, Gramps’ 1929 1 1/2-ton Model AA was on its last leg. Dad couldn’t have been happier knowing that what otherwise would have been a frill was a necessity around a farm. However, the $1,150 price tag was an almost insurmountable problem, even with Dad’s $100 boot money.
For some strange reason, a day or two after Gramp’s funeral in 1965, Mother told me about the only argument between Gramp’s and Dad that she had ever witnessed. It was about that 1951 GMC pickup, or rather, how Dad had arranged to buy it. Mother said that Dad had seen the truck parked at Adams Chevrolet and stopped to look at it. David Adams insisted that Dad test drive the truck. When Dad returned he expressed his inability to afford such a high-priced vehicle. Adams insisted that Dad go see Fitz Billingsley at First State Bank of Boaz, even said he would give him a call as a recommendation. Long story short, the Banker offered Dad a low-interest loan with an extra year ‘for good measure if you hit the rough.’ Dad agreed, drove the truck home, and met Gramp’s coming out of the barn.
Mother said Gramp’s was always cool and calm, except when threatened. That day, he felt threatened by a thing called debt. He and his father were always against borrowing for anything unless it was a ‘piece of land.’ Gramp’s said that was the only thing that holds its value. Mother said her and Mama El heard shouting and came outside from the kitchen. Mama El was the only one who could get Gramps to settle down. She told him that Dad was right, they needed a reliable truck, and Dad had proven himself since the end of the war by working for almost ten years six days per week at the Mill. Within a couple of days Gramp’s loved the truck nearly as much as Dad.
Six months after Gramp’s died, the green 1951 GMC, known around the Tanner place as the ‘Green Giant’ had a heart attack of a different kind. Dad blamed himself and not the Giant. I don’t think Dad every got over Gramps’ death or what he claimed was his own stupidity for overloading the Giant. An old Pecan tree had blown over towards the house and Dad had tried to pull it using a long cable tied to the upper part of the tree and onto the rear axle of the truck. He also used our John Deere tractor but someway blew up the Giant’s motor. Adams Chevrolet laid out the cost of repair and the cost of trading. This time, the truck was a 1963 Chevrolet one ton 4 x 4. This time, Fitz made Dad an even better deal.
It was after Thanksgiving of my sixth-grade year. Fitz’s son Fred continued to struggle with his school work. Fitz had heard of me, through both my Dad and Fred. The day Dad went to First State Bank to sign the note to buy the 63 Chevy, Fitz introduced a unique banking twist. He would make the $35.00 per month payment on the truck if I would tutor Fred. Dad agreed and I had no choice, but I didn’t really mind since I kind of liked Fred.
For three years, nearly every afternoon after school, Fitz brought Fred to my house. Dad had suggested Fred ride the bus home with me but Fitz wouldn’t have it. He didn’t want anyone to know about his son’s learning problems. The only exception to this schedule was during the late Fall and early Winter in our 7th and 8th grade years when Fred was playing basketball on the Junior High team along with Wade Tillman, James Adams, Randall Radford, and John Ericson. During these times, Fitz would bring Fred over either after practice or early Saturday morning to stay all day.
By the end of the first semester of our 9th grade year, Fred was a solid B+ student. His problem had not been his IQ but his hyperactivity. When I started tutoring Fred, it didn’t take long for me to realize that his problem was his inability to stay focused. It was easy to see that Fred could not easily sit still working on a lesson at our kitchen table, but that out by the barn he could shoot a basketball forever without getting distracted one bit. Fitz never knew it as far as I know but about half the time Fred was at our place, we were outside fishing or hunting, and Fred fell in love with ‘Tannerville’ as he called it. I created games that helped Fred concentrate, things like tracking a rabbit, and watching one ant for an hour without looking up. I would tell Fred that reading or writing was like hunting and fishing. If he didn’t want to be the fish or the rabbit he had to learn the benefit of staying focused. I think, more than anything, Fred finally made the connection. By the end of Junior High, and certainly by the end of the first semester of our 9th grade year, Fred chose to be the hunter, the one in control. One other thing, I don’t think it hurt at all that I used a little psychology on Fred. I repeatedly told him the only way for him to someday have the resources to own a big place in the country like ‘Tannerville’ was to learn from the ant, with its slow and methodical routine.
Chapter 5
After 8th grade, there were three things I really enjoyed: reading, especially fiction, football, and scorekeeping. I played football four years at Boaz High School. I was pretty good at it. I started as a tight-end and linebacker during my Junior and Senior years. In the ninth grade, I tried out for basketball but never could seem to develop the necessary skills to dribble and shoot the ball. But, I was a great scorekeeper.
In the fall of my tenth-grade year Coach Pearson, who also taught Biology, asked the class one day if anyone would like to try out to be the School’s basketball scorekeeper. He relayed that Matt Simmons, the School’s scorekeeper for the past three years, was moving next week to Birmingham. Coach emphasized the importance of this job and told all interested to meet him and Principal Benson in the gym the next morning at 7:00 a.m. Later that day, the School secretary’s meek little voice made the same announcement over the intercom. I remember her voice growing deeper as she said, “the trials will be timed.”
The opportunity resounded in my mind. I was responsible and good at math. I guessed numbers figured into the mix somehow. And, most importantly, I wanted something to do after football season ended this Friday night. After the last bell, I was at my locker about to head to football practice when I saw Coach Pearson. Without any hesitation, I raised my voice above the sound of students clamoring to exit the prison, “Coach, I want to be the scorekeeper. I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked my way but barely acknowledged that he heard me.
All that night I wondered what scorekeeping tryouts would be like. I could understand why one would have to be quick, certainly never getting behind. I lay in bed trying to guess how many others would show up for the trials. At 2:30 a.m., before finally dozing off, I concluded there would be four of us.
I arrived at 6:45 a.m. to an empty gym. Coach and Principal Benson showed up together a few seconds before 7:00. We all stood at a table that had been set up at the north end of the gym about 30 feet from the big scoreboard that hung on the wall. At 7:02 a.m. Mr. Benson looked at me, shook my hand, and announced that I was the Boaz scorekeeper. It wasn’t because I did a figurative running dunk shot from the foul line with a half-second left on the game clock. I was the only one who showed up. Coach told me to sit down at the table as Mr. Benson, in full character, turned and almost jogged toward the exit. He always had a mind full of places to be and people to see.
Coach Pearson was about as good a scorekeeping instructor as he was a Biology teacher. Neither was very high on his priority list. I guess he thought any lamebrain could keep score. But, he did give me a five-minute lesson. My job was two-fold: maintain the electronic scoreboard and hand-record statistics on a paper spreadsheet. Coach showed me how to use the control panel that was setup on the table. It looked pretty much like the scoreboard on the wall, with the words “Home” and “Guest” printed and equally spaced across the top. Underneath each heading were several colored buttons with numbers written beside them: a green 2, a green 1, a red 2, and a red 1. Pearson told me to simply press the correct button to add or subtract a score. He used his best sarcasm and said I would know who the ‘Home’ team was. He also said that if I made a mistake the head referee would let me know. At this point I picked up the spreadsheet and Coach said that he had to go but to see him if I had any questions. I stayed a few more minutes learning that I was to keep up with points scored and fouls committed by player. The spreadsheet form was divided in two sections with ‘Scoring’ on the left and ‘Fouls’ on the right. I didn’t see a big problem in keeping up with who scored and who fouled. I knew all the players. They were not friends but I knew their names and faces. The good thing about the spreadsheet was I only had to keep up with the “Home” team.
Chapter 6
The first home game of the 1969 season was with the cross-county rival Arab Knights. They had a fast and quick-trigger forward who, along with a giraffe-necked center, scorched our nets for 99 points. We had 33 less. The only bright spot was the passing and ball-stealing abilities of our point guard James Adams. He was a sophomore like me.
The season didn’t get much better. Boaz lost 32 of its 58 games, losing 18 games at home. I didn’t miss a game. I even rode the bus with the team to all Away games even though I wasn’t the scorekeeper. However, Coach Pearson was a stickler for statistics and the pet spreadsheet that he often called ‘The Shit.’
During my Sophomore year I only made one mistake. It was against the Albertville Aggies in the last home game in mid-January. There was less than two minutes left on the clock and we were down only two points when long passes and fast breaks became the mood on the court. John Ericson scored on a layup and was fouled. He missed the foul shot but for some reason I unknowingly added the point to the Board and the game continued. It was some sort of miracle that the referees continued the game even though the Aggie fans were shouting and nearly coming out of the bleachers. Boaz Center Randall Radford blocked Albertville’s next shot and Coach Pearson called time-out. Before I could stand up to stretch my legs Albertville’s coach was dragging the head ref over to my table and motioning for Coach Pearson. It was a tense few moments with tempers flaring. The refs finally recognized the mistake and ordered me to remove the point from the Boaz score. Albertville went on to beat Boaz by three points. Even though one would think that Boaz fans and players wouldn’t have been upset with me, that wasn’t the case. It seemed everyone blamed me for the loss. Several of the players said I intentionally got the Aggies fired up and cost them the game.
Chapter 7
Things were much different during my Junior year. Five players, all classmates of mine since Elementary school, survived the sophomore season and were determined to return Boaz to basketball glory: Wade Tillman, James Adams, Randall Radford, Fred Billingsley, and John Ericson. They had spent their summer in the gym running, shooting, and developing dialog and plays. These five even organized Thursday night pickup games throughout the Fall, often having players from surrounding high schools and junior colleges form teams to scrimmage. These scrimmages were open to the public and drew an ever-increasing crowd even though it was football season. After the first couple of games I was asked to start maintaining the scoreboard.
I had always gotten along with these guys. This all changed Thursday night October 7th, 1970. After the scrimmage, I was leaving the gym when James Adams’s sister asked me to give him a message. I told her that he was in the locker room and should be out in a few minutes. She said it was urgent and handed me a folded sheet of paper pleading with me not to read it. I agreed and walked to the locker room. I found James and gave him the note. He looked at me and ordered me to sit down on a bench in the middle of the room in between two rows of lockers. I told him I had to go and started walking out. For an unknown reason, all five of them started taunting and pushing me around. I was strong and got in a couple of punches but I was no match for the five of them. They grabbed my legs and I fell to the floor. Two of them held my arms back over my head and the other three removed my pants. Then they removed my shoes and shirt and stood me up.
Fred Billingsley said, “Tanner, this is payback for costing us the Albertville game last year. If you know what’s good for you, you will make sure we win the real close games. Surely you can feed us a few points over the course of a game.” James Adams then told me to go home. I tried to get my clothes but Wade Tillman said, “You will remember our orders better if you go home naked. Now, get the hell out of here.”
I walked out of the gym and to my car. Fortunately, only James’ sister Loree, and her friend Kristie saw me. When I got home I went inside the barn and found a burlap bag to cover myself as I walked in the kitchen. Mom and Dad never heard me come in and never knew what had happened.
Chapter 8
I never told anybody about what happened that night. But, I never forgot. The next week football season ended and basketball season became the talk of the town. There was much anticipation and hope for a winning season. Wade, James, Randall, Fred, and John became an almost unbeatable team. They only lost to Etowah and Guntersville but went on to win the County tournament and made it to the final four in the State playoffs.
Before the quarter-finals and after school on Thursday, Wade Tillman approached me as I was closing my locker. He said that he was sorry about what happened in October and invited me to church on Sunday. As other students were leaving, James, Randall, Fred, and John walked up and apologized. They said they were ashamed how they had treated me and hoped that I would forgive them. They said they had rededicated their lives to God during the youth revival that had been going on all week at First Baptist Church of Christ.
Now, right before my seventeenth birthday I wasn’t as religious as I had been in Elementary and Junior High school, but I rarely ever missed a Sunday at Clear Creek Baptist Church listening to a Brother G sermon. I had never been to First Baptist. It was the biggest church in town and had the reputation for being a little too uppity-up for me and my blue-collar family. I told them not to worry about what had happened and said I would think about coming to church on Sunday.
Chapter 9
Boaz lost its Saturday afternoon quarter-finals game to Anniston High School ending the best year ever for Pirates basketball.
Sunday morning, I met Wade Tillman outside First Baptist Church of Christ not really knowing why I had showed up. He thanked me for coming and led me to the second floor of the education building and the youth Sunday School Department. Mr. Neal Smith was a short and balding middle-aged man who knew his Bible and conveyed a respect for God and Jesus that I had never seen, other than Brother G of course. But, this Sunday, he did allow a few minutes for rehashing yesterday’s game.
James, Randall, Fred, and John were also present and, along with Wade, led the charge in the classroom nearly as well as they did out on the basketball court. I was surprised how engaging they were with Mr. Smith. It seemed that each of them had studied the lesson encased in a thick brightly colored book with a picture on its front cover of the crucified Christ hanging on the Cross.
I don’t think I really learned anything new in Sunday School that day, or during the preaching hour for that matter. It wasn’t because of poor teaching or preaching. All my life I had attended a Baptist Church. Although Clear Creek Baptist Church was probably only about a tenth as big as First Baptist, it taught the Bible as seriously as what I had just witnessed. Come to think of it, I guess I did learn something during my first visit. I learned that ‘the Flaming Five,’ as they were being called, had just as strong a faith in the Bible, God and Christ, as I did. They didn’t seem to have any doubts whatsoever that Jesus was God’s Son, born of a virgin, died for our sins on the Cross, was resurrected on the third day, and was now in Heaven sitting beside God waiting until Jesus’ return at the end of the ages. As for me, I did have a few little doubts, but I had always sized them up simply as a lack of faith, not as something to explore, and for sure, not something to share and talk about in a community that was so infiltrated by and immersed in Christianity that it would likely burn heretics at the stake.
Chapter 10
Ever since I became the Boaz scorekeeper I heard more and more about Club Eden. It apparently was this mythical place where the Flaming Five hung out on weekends. The Tuesday after my first visit to First Baptist Church of Christ, John Ericson invited me to camp out with him and the other four Friday night since there wasn’t a basketball game. He said Club Eden was a private club and I had to swear not to disclose its location or what happens. He told me to meet him at San Ann #1 at 5:00 p.m. When I arrived, Fred was with John in his big red Chevy Blazer. They made me sit between them with a black hood over my head. They told me that I couldn’t know where Club Eden is until I became a full member. I asked how I became a member and all they would say is, “we have to know that you are a true believer. Don’t worry, it will take a while but we believe you have what it takes.”
It was not until much later that I learned why I had even been considered for membership. It was Fred’s dad, Fitz, who had suggested to the other members they give me a try. My Dad had told me at least a hundred times since the middle of the 9th grade how proud he was of me for transforming Fred into a good student. Dad also had told me how thankful Fitz Billingsley was and had often asked Dad how he could repay me.
Now, riding along, bumping and weaving, I tried to visualize where John was taking us but after a couple of turns and Fred’s loud impression of ‘Imagine,’ I quickly became confused. After twenty minutes or so, John parked and Fred pulled the mask off my head. We were sitting in front of an old log cabin in the woods that sat beside an overflowing creek. Fred told me to check things out as he and John unloaded the coolers, several boxes of food, a couple of lanterns, and a host of other gear.
The cabin had a porch across its front with five big oak rocking chairs. I walked around to the back of the cabin and saw a fire pit encircled with big rocks and an assortment of chairs and benches. Thirty feet or so beyond the fire pit was a twenty-foot-wide creek that revealed the effects of the big rains we had had the last several days. Upstream to the left I could see an old army tent. I walked the 100 feet or so to it and raised the front flap and peeped inside. There were two large beds set up, one on the far left, the other on the right. They were both partially covered with what looked like bearskins. The floor was covered in a green bristly carpet that reminded me of a hairbrush my mother had—but it was brown.
I walked back outside and heard another vehicle driving up. As I came around to the front of the cabin I saw Wade getting out of his blue Chevy Blazer. I never did know why Wade and John chose the same type vehicle. At least they were different colors.
Randall hopped out the other side and opened the rear hatch. Out poured James along with two girls. I could tell they were girls even though they had black masks over their heads. I didn’t know either one of them.
Over the next several hours we grilled burgers, built a big fire in the fire pit, and listened to James’s boombox. Fred told a ghost story that made me want to go home. Around 10:00 p.m., Wade and Fred walked away with the two girls, which I never knew their names, and wound up in the tent. About an hour later Fred and Wade returned to the fire pit and Randall and James went to the tent. As far as I remember, John stayed at the fire and never went to the tent, but the other four were persistent in taking their hour-long turns. No one said anything about what was going on in the tent but I figured I was learning firsthand that the rumors I had heard about the underlying meaning of ‘the Flaming Five’ was apparently true—they were as determined to score with the girls as they were to fire up the nets.
Around 2:45 a.m., Wade and James left with the girls. I caught a glimpse of them before Wade pulled on their masks. They didn’t look near as happy and gleeful as they did when they arrived nearly eight hours earlier. Wade and James returned in about an hour and we all pulled out our sleeping bags and slept under the cold starry sky. After a breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee, and ten minutes of packing, I was again sitting between Fred and John under a damp and black hood heading back to San Ann #1, my car, and with a new understanding of the real Flaming Five.
The Pencil Driven Life 
