Red Dirt Rocker

by Jody French

  The team is on the fifty-yard line, walking through some special team plays, when I toss Kyle the football. It’s a perfect rotating spiral. I can’t help but admire the launched football as it torpedoes its way sixty yards through the clear blue sky. Kyle jumps vertically two feet. His sure hands catch the pigskin and firmly cradle it into his chest. He holds the ball over his head and hoops it up. “Yeah baby!” he declares proudly. It was a good throw, but an even better catch.

  Kyle is a wide receiver on the Tiger team and an excellent athlete. The coaches think he has a good chance of being recruited to play at one of Oklahoma's universities. He’s a dedicated player with good hands and lightning speed. I’m proud to call Kyle my teammate, and my best bud.

  We’ve been friends since we were toddlers. Our parents met when we were still in Pull-ups. We even got to share a birthday party in pre-school. Believe it or not, it was a John Deere tractor party. John Deere is the equivalent of Mercedes Benz in our small town, so it made Kyle and me feel like big-time farmers. We got to go to my Aunt Carmen's farm and ride on the green and yellow combine tractor that had an air conditioner and cassette player. A Kenny Rogers tape played “You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille” as Kyle and I made a couple of rounds in the soybean field. Mama still displays the framed picture of Kyle and me decked out in our overalls, holding our little toy tractors. We’ve shared a lot of fun memories. I’m sure we’ll be friends for life.

  Kyle and I continue to play catch and talk about our upcoming game. I can see D.J., and the team's center, Sam, whispering and elbowing each other. They look like they are up to no good, and are mysteriously pointing in our direction.

  Sam is D.J’s "yes" man. He’ll do almost anything that D.J. dares him to do. His nickname is "Box," because he’s built like a sturdy square—just as wide as he is tall. He weighs around 275, and is only five and a half feet tall. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he can sure hold the line. Box is a massive, dull-witted beast!

  Kyle throws me back a bomb and I stretch for the pass that’s just a bit too far over my head. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Box barreling towards me like a charging bull. His fat arms wrap around my waist and both my feet lift off the ground. I feel like a helpless rag doll as he makes his blindside tackle.

  Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. I hold my left hand out to catch myself and wrench my wrist into the dry turf. It takes me a few seconds to realize what has just happened. Knots build up quickly in my gut.

  Box stands up and brushes himself off. His fat rolls ooze out of the bottom of his jersey, like flesh-colored Jell-O. D.J. stands off to the side, with his head cocked back, laughing hysterically.

  "What the heck!" Kyle wails as he sprints over to my defense. I grab my wrist. My heart skips a beat. Okay, it's not broken, I think, relieved, as I survey the movement in my joints.

  Kyle grabs for my good hand and steadies me back onto my cleats. I glare at D.J. and Sam with clenched teeth, my jaw muscles pulsing with anger.

  “What were you thinking? Why did you hit me, you freakin’ idiot?” I growl, holding my arm to my side. "How stupid can you be? I didn’t even see you coming, dude," I fume.

  "Oh, Forrest. Box didn’t mean to hurt ya. Can't ya take a joke?" D.J. sings out sarcastically. “Just let your boyfriend Kyle comfort you.”

  "Not a funny joke!" Having said that, Kyle then lunges at them, kicking up the orange clay so it drifts their way.

  "It's all right, man. I'm okay, Kyle." I assure him as I try to collect my thoughts. I knot Kyle’s jersey between my fingers and pull him back. He’s acting like a frenzied-but-tethered pit bull.

  The coaches blow the whistle signifying the end of practice. What I really want to do at this moment is to let Kyle go in for the kill, but quickly decide it’s not worth a fight, and I sure don’t want Kyle to get kicked off the team for punching Box or D.J. I have to convince Kyle to head back to the field house without popping one of them in the mouth first.

  "Man, Forrest…D.J.’s a jealous jerk. We shoulda’ whipped em’ right there on the field," Kyle says, spitting angrily on the chalked sidelines.

  "Naw. I'm okay. I know D.J. dared Box to tackle me—we all know that Sam’s a few bricks shy of a load anyway. It did kinda freak me out when I fell on my wrist, though. My band would kill me if I couldn't play my guitar at the show tomorrow, and my dad would totally freak if I missed the game tonight," I reply, stretching my left arm out in front of me. I know I’m letting them off the hook, but as long as no major damage was done, I’m relieved.

  I still fight to control my anger before it gets the best of me. Kyle chunks his cleats in his stale gym locker and slams it shut with a vibrating clang.

  "Dang scum-suckin’ jerks!" he huffs. "They’d better watch their step, is all I have ta say.”

  I shower quickly and leave the field house. I have a couple of hours before the game and need to clear my head. I have to keep my cool about the tackling incident because I don’t want Kyle to jeopardize his position on the team by fighting, but inside my blood is boiling. I have to leave quickly before I say or do something I might regret.

  I was taught that fighting isn’t the way to solve my problems. I’m not a fighter, although out on the field, I sure wanted to take a piece out of D.J. For now, I take solace in the fact that D.J. will pay for his jealousy and ignorance someday. Life has a way of taking care of bullies, and D.J. is an insecure loser.

  I jump in my pickup, gun the engine and head west on Highway 51-B. I turn on my stereo, roll the windows down, and let the sweet country air swirl into the cab and clear my head.

  Focusing on the barbed wired fences that I’m driving alongside, I begin to think how they remind me of the rugged, barbed wire tattoos that I’ve seen on so many of my rock heroes. I’m not sure what God thinks of tattoos. I’ve always imagined that if I ever got one, it would be okay with the Man Upstairs, cause I would get my favorite Bible verse permanently inked on my skin: Philippians 4:13. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." A pair of rugged praying hands would make it just perfect, I envision.

  Right now I need strength to be able to hold my temper, and not tear into D.J. I need to go to my practice place and play my guitar. Playing guitar is my form of meditation. It always helps me think calmly and clearly.

  I continue down the dry, bumpy country lane lined with tall oak and paper-shell pecan trees. Lengths of light filter through the branch canopy above the road. A reddish-brown trail spins behind my truck like a dusty ghost. Parking in front of an old red barn, I lean back in the seat, close my eyes and ask for self-control. I slap the steering wheel with my good hand, sling open the creaking Chevy door, and step out into the wide-open countryside. I’m at my home away from home—I’m at Aunt Carmen's farm.

  My favorite place in the whole countryside is our practice headquarters for the band—an old, weathered barn that has been faithfully sitting on Aunt Carmen’s acreage for over fifty years. The barn also houses her quarter horse, Mojo, five farm cats, a goat named Gotcher, (as in "got yer goat"), dozens of field mice, and even a wise old owl that takes shelter in the hay loft. It also stores all of my band's music gear.

  Aunt Carmen's place is a country paradise, with just the right balance of boot-scootin' charm and modern luxuries. I often come here to ride Mojo and just chill.

  There’s a swimming pool behind the large stone and brick house that a mother duck and her ducklings consider their own private, oversized bird bath. They have a large pond, but leftover corn bread thrown out the back door keeps the feathered friends coming back for more.

  The inside of the house is warm and inviting. Aunt Carmen's kitchen has brick floors and a big, black potbelly stove. It looks like an antique, but it’s actually an induction oven. Great Grandma Nellie’s recipes have been handed down to Mama and Aunt Carmen. Grandma's old-fashioned fried chicken and apple pie are still the specialties of the house.

  I start for the old red barn and hea
r Aunt Carmen’s voice echoing from the front porch. "Hey, Forrest, honey! Would ya please put Mojo out ta pasture before you boys start yer band practice? I gotta meatloaf in the oven—you’ll need somethin' ta eat before yer game tonight. Come on in after yer done playin,' sweetie!" she calls out with a thick southern drawl.

  “You got it, Aunt Carmen. Thank you, Ma'am,” I call back to her. My mouth begins to water at the comforting thought of Aunt C’s savory tomato-sauce-topped meatloaf and the fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes that always accompany it.

  I pry open the splintered barn door and, as usual, the skittish barn cats shoot out like supersonic fuzz balls over my Sketchers. They jet across the yard to the front porch of the main house. Mollie, the family dog, a chunky black Lab that is old and half blind, tries in vain to catch up to one of the wild kittens. It's not that Mollie would harm the feline—it would be more like she would lick it to death. There’s always a lot of good, old-fashioned hospitality at the farm.

  "Come on, Mojo boy," I say as I pat the large beast on his meaty hindquarters. Dust bunnies fly up and swirl in the golden late afternoon sunlight. Mojo is a slick, red sorrel Quarter Horse gelding. I recall wanting to know what a gelding was several years ago, but when I got the answer, I wished I hadn't asked. Let’s just say poor Mojo won’t be making any Mojo Juniors!

  "We gotta jam, old boy—you'll be better off in the pasture till sunset." I open the black iron gate that leads to 40 acres of fertile pasture land and a serene pond loaded with sunny perch. After unfastening the lead rope from Mojo's halter, I watch the liberated beast trot off. His head shakes proudly from side to side. Mojo's coarse, flowing mane flies, burning like flames being fed by the wind.

  I smile and think to myself, as I watch the powerful animal pick up speed when he reaches the open field, That's how I feel when I play my guitar—FREE!

  I pull my well-worn guitar case from the back seat of my truck and make my way back to the musty, but weather-tight, barn. A bass amp, two Marshall amps, a mic stand and a gold chrome Gretch drum kit take up the north side of the building. This Jam Barn is the official practice headquarters for my band, Cellar Door Is Gone.

  I open my leather guitar case that’s plastered with faded band stickers and pull out my other pride and joy, Betty, my Les Paul sweetheart. Betty is nestled securely against the tattered, red, crushed-velvet case lining. I slip my guitar strap, imprinted with smiling skulls with blue glowing eyes, around my neck. I take a deep breath. Exhaling, I begin my much needed escape.

  As I reach down to plug in the cord that runs from my guitar to the amp, I’m grateful for the blank-slate feeling that washes over me. I begin to play a random melody. I think of nothing. I close my eyes and see a symphony of color. I let my calloused fingers strum the yielding metal strings. The confusion that has previously filled my head is replaced by feelings of peace and pure joy. My heart beats strong—I feel in control. No matter what has taken place during the day, or how discouraging life seems to be at the time, I can always count on the power of music to wash it all away. Nothing compares—not video games, not sports, not even girls. Music is my saving grace—music is my true love.

  I drift into a song that my band and I had written earlier in the year called “Sweet Goodbye.” My band buds and I have been playing together for five years now. We got together at the ripe old age of eleven. Jake and I heard each other play during our fifth grade talent show. He and I had both started playing guitar at a very early age. Mama raised me on classic rock music, and Jake's family tree was full of southern country rebels who loved to rock, as well.

  We needed a drummer and learned that Cody was taking lessons. He lived just a bike ride away. Cody thought he would have to beg his parents to let him move his drum set to Aunt Carmen’s barn, but that wasn’t the case. They were more than grateful for the peace and quiet.

  We talked Randy into playing bass for us because he lived just one homestead over and wore awesome vintage concert t-shirts to school. He may have started with us because he lived close by and looked cool, but we kept him with us because he had incredible rhythm and could slap a bass.

  Aunt Carmen says our band is as organic as the horse manure in her south forty. I think that means that it all came together in a very natural way. We decided on our band’s name after high speed winds forced me and the boys into the farm’s root cellar one stormy afternoon. We were practicing when Aunt Carmen came busting through the barn door. She had a sense of urgency on her face, and ordered us to follow her while maintaining a controlled panic.

  As we ran across the farmyard, I noticed the sky had turned a sickly grey-green color. Hail the size of quarters began pelting us. I spotted Mollie trying to squeeze through the lattice under the front porch and sprinted to pick her up. Aunt Carmen screamed for me to let her be, but I just couldn’t. I grabbed Mollie, soaking my shirt with the skunky smell of wet dog, and jogged back to the shelter. I handed her down to the other boys as she grunted and groaned from arthritis. I then insisted that Aunt Carmen climb down the steep rickety steps before me.

  As I held the door open for her, the hail stopped. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and blackness came. It became eerily calm. I started my descent down the cellar stairs. It was like a scene from a nightmare. I looked up to see the wicked side-winding twister that had emerged from the ominous squall line. The door fell shut with a sharp crack and we all huddled together in the darkness. The smell of garden onions and dusty potatoes was thick in the humid air.

  Next came the sound…the forbidding sound that only a tornado makes. A growling, rumbling, whistling sound as though the 10:00 Frisco freight train had been diverted directly across the top of the root cellar door and was ready to fall in on top of us.

  We were all paralyzed with fear as the twister roared over like an angry monster. I’ve never felt so small, so scared, so close to God. Aunt Carmen held the boys and me in her motherly arms and prayed out loud to Jesus. Dirt and wood splinters spun violently over our heads and it sounded like someone cracking open a pop-top can. The sucking winds ripped the door off the root cellar, but we didn’t budge. It was all over in a matter of two terrifying minutes. The untamed twister disappeared back into the dark and thick rolling clouds.

  Jake was the first to go back up. The boys and I hoisted Mollie up the stairs brigade-style. We expected to see a war zone as we emerged from our bunker, but to our shock and relief, the tornado hadn’t done much damage to the barn or the house. They were both left virtually unscathed. The only things the twister took with it were an old rusty plow, two black shutters from the house, and the creaky wooden door to the root cellar.

  The boys and I stood in disbelief as we surveyed the property. All the color had drained from Cody’s face. He repeated over and over, “The cellar door is gone…the cellar door is gone.”

  “Cellar Door Is Gone…that’s it…that’s our band's name," I said in no more than a whisper. The hair on our arms seemed to practically stand up and shout, “Yes!” The boys heard me loud and clear.

  The sun began to peek back out from behind the smeared, grey clouds. The cold drops of rain dissipated. Wispy chicken feathers, or perhaps bits of the snowy down of angel wings that protected us that day, swirled around our tennis shoes. My band brothers and I shook our heads in agreement—Cellar Door Is Gone it was.

  I continue to play our band's original song, "Sweet Goodbye.” I wrote the song with D.J. as my inspiration. It’s about changing relationships, and the unfortunate fading of some friendships over time.

  My friendship with D.J. sadly ended years before. He and I used to play kickball on the playground every day in elementary school, but it all ended in third grade when D.J. and I got placed on the same baseball team. He wanted to play first base, and it became my position. D.J. was our pitcher and did a great job, but his competitive nature got the best of him at our second game of the season.

  I was the only leftie on our team and panicked when my glove mysteriously disappeared
from the dugout just minutes before the beginning of the first inning. My dad gave me his right hand glove and sent me out to center field. D.J. was put at first base and I had to play the rest of the game as a right hander. We lost the game and D.J.’s dad found my left handed ball glove in D.J.’s baseball bag. He insisted he didn’t put it there, but our short stop admitted he saw him slide it in before the game started. D.J.’s dad took him out to the parking lot by his ear and grounded him from his Play Station for two weeks. D.J. ignored me on the playground from that day on.

  D.J. is an incredible athlete and sly as a fox. He always yes sir and yes ma’ams his coaches and teachers, but I know his true colors. He still deals with me as though I’m his competition, not his friend.

  I’m bummed that D.J. feels this way, but grateful for my bandmates, and especially Kyle. We have an unconditional friendship that will last. There’s nothing I can do to erase the resentment that D.J. feels toward me, so I feed off the “friendship gone sour” story, and channel my feelings into my songs.

  I first started writing music for the band when I was just twelve years old. My juvenile and corny compositions started with the typical themes of rock star dreams, lyrics about our amps, guitars and the beat of the drums. As I continued playing and experiencing life, the quality of my songs matured. I could sit down in a single night, if the feeling inspired me, and write an entire song, lyrics, melody and all.

  Song writing had become my passion. I could transform my hopes, dreams and conflicts into musical form. Mama said it was a gift—a gift that cost me nothing to share.

  I close my eyes and I begin to sing:

  Life will not be the same without you

  I’ll never doubt you

  But you turned away from me

  I just wanna forget about you

  Sit out on a bayou

  And sing you a sweet goodbye