by Frank Felton
“You know, Grandpa was a lifelong Democrat. A Blue Dog Democrat, as he would say. But he never ran for office. He said the only way to tell a politician is lying, is if you see his lips moving.”
A few people laughed, but not enough to pause. So he kept going.
“He wouldn’t stand to hear people talk about paying too many taxes. He told me the only year of his life he never paid any taxes, he also nearly starved to death. He was fond of the old saying the only thing you are guaranteed of in life is death and taxes. The day after he died, he called to say those are both true.”
He stopped cold, and looked up, in serious manner. Only a handful of folks realized immediately it was a punch line. Odd stares sprinkled about the congregation, but the laughter grew as more people got the joke. The mood shifted, and he was on a roll.
He dropped in a non-scripted line.
“You know what else he said; ‘He who laughs last, doesn’t get the joke.’”
Even more laughter. The crowd was breaking.
“My grandpa was a pilot. He liked to tell jokes about aviation. He regaled me once the story of an old World War I pilot, who liked to tell war stories about fighting against the Germans, and in particular a dogfight with some German Fokkers. Grandpa asked the man if the Germans had the best pilots, and if the Fokker was such a great airplane, ‘How did you manage to shoot them all down?’ The old man replied, ‘Well, I only shot down two of those Fokkers. But by the way, they wasn’t Fokkers, they was Messerschmitts.’”
Pastor Mahan perked up a bit. He briefly considered standing up to politely put a stop to it, but decided it might be awkward. He let Troy keep speaking. He hadn’t crossed any lines. Yet.
The crowd kept laughing.
“Grandpa was a lifelong rancher, but he made his money in construction. He used to say he had to keep a full time job to pay for his ranching habits. He believed people spent too much money on fancy tractors and fertilizers. He always invested in land, regardless of how it looked, because, as he said, ‘They ain’t makin’ any more of it.’ In his opinion, the way to make money with land, and cows, was simple. Keep grass in front of ‘em, and a bull behind ‘em.”
The audience continued to laugh. Those old time farmers all could relate. Knowing Hank, whether he said those words or not, every person in the room who knew him could envision it. Pastor Mahan blushed, but the crowd had spoken.
“One year, Grandpa regaled us of the drought in the 1950’s. It was so dry you could walk across the San Gabriel River. ‘Drier than a popcorn fart,’ he would say. I believe he actually prayed to the Lord to send us a ‘turd-floater’ to fill the tanks back up with water.”
Pastor’s smile dissipated and he gazed towards the floor. He was getting more uncomfortable by the words. He silently said a little prayer, “Lord, let this end well.”
“Some of you older gentlemen probably worked construction for my grandpa. I was once told a story, I can’t remember who it was; maybe someone can verify if it’s true. When his company won its first contract for ALCOA, he was young, in his 20’s. The contract was to provide mine services and other work at the plant. First day on the job, a fire broke out where they were digging for lignite, and here comes Hank and a couple of his workers, hauling ass down the road. He didn’t stop at the guard gate; he just drove right through it and smashed it to pieces. Within minutes they had the fire put out, and one of the ALCOA operations execs came by to congratulate the men for a job well done.”
“Mr. Benson, you and these boys did one helluva job. You really showed some guts out here today.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hank replied.
“I’m glad you won that contract. Tell me, what are you going to do with all that money you’ll be making?”
To which Hank replied. “Well, sir, first thing I’m going to do is fix the brakes on this goddamned truck.”
Pastor stood up, but the congregation was roiling with laughter. Troy acknowledged Pastor Mahan by putting his hands up in Nixonian fashion, gesturing for a little forgiveness.
“Sorry, pastor. We’ll tone it down a bit.”
Pastor sat back down, a nervous smile on his face. It looked like part of the show, but it was entirely unscripted.
The speech was going better than he expected. His confidence was up. He had nothing to fear from his hometown. It was obvious they were behind him. So he started in on the next section of his eulogy.
As a seasoned combat pilot, he knew he’d passed the V1 engine failure speed. If there were any inhibitions left in his mind, this was the time to abort the takeoff, throttle down, and walk away. If not, then it was time to pull back on the stick and let this jet slip the bonds of earth. In the back of his mind, he heard his own voice through a static-laden intercom, calling the control tower; ‘Shack 54, airborne.’
“Let me take you back to a story about Grandpa Hank, and I’ll throw in a history lesson as well. Some of you know I’ve had some time off lately so I’ve had plenty of time to do a little research. His farm was settled by the Indians many years ago. You’ve all heard of Apache Pass, just outside of Thorndale here, and the El Camino Real trading route that led from Mexico up through Louisiana. That is where my great-great grandfather Aiden Benson originally planted roots back in the 1800’s. The El Camino Real was basically the Silk Road of Texas connecting Mexico City all the way up to Nacogdoches. The original Silk Road was started by the Han Dynasty. For those of you who failed history, that’s in China. This was 200 years before Christ. While the Silk Road led to development of civilization across Asia, the El Camino helped expand the frontier into Texas, both up from Mexico, and from the east as the United States laid claim to the frontier through Manifest Destiny.”
“Now this farm where Aiden settled was cut by the Gabriel, and the point which the El Camino crossed is what we now call Apache Pass. The Apache were here because of the fertile blackland soil and native pecan trees in the lowland river bottoms; but the area has always been flood prone. That was until the Army Corps of Engineers built an upstream dam in 1980. I believe it was this dam Grandpa was referring to when he spoke of the salvation it brought to area farmers protecting their crops and homes from massive torrents of water during Texas thunderstorms. And it’s to which he was referring every time he mentioned the words God dam. You all know he referred to it quite often.”
Pastor had given up worrying, and had clenched his ears shut at this point. The crowd listened intently, thoroughly enjoying the history of their own community. So much of it existed here, yet many never gave a thought to what existed. And, they continued to laugh.
“Hank’s farm is now the last stop on the river until the Gulf of Mexico. It’s the longest un-God-dammed stretch of river in the state. It pours into Little River, and then the Brazos, before its final terminus in the Gulf. Now, those of you who worked for Grandpa know he was prone to fits of mania. That is a clinical term, mind you, but basically means that he could be a real jackass at times. This was never more apparent than during the Great Christmas Flood of 1991. Grandpa read the meteorological signs, and when the rains began to fall, he knew there was one thing he’d always wanted to do. The dam had put an end to all the flooding, which wasn’t a bad thing of course, but it meant the Gabriel was no longer navigable. Like a steer after castration, it no longer had any balls. This never set right with Old Hank. He like to set trot lines and fish in the river, and now it was just a creek that ran at a constant flow.”
“1991 was an El Nino year. During such, abnormally warm ocean water tends to cause more extreme weather. It was on this stage a series of cold air masses made their way south across the Great Plains and into Texas. A cold front centered itself over Georgia. Around December 18th the wave from up north stalled in a line from Arizona to the deserts of Sonora, Mexico. Clockwise flow around the Georgian front brought warm, moist air in from the Gulf of Mexico, right up in to Texas, and the low level jet stream dipped in to act as a trigger. While spot records for rainfall did not break rec
ords, the sheer area of rainfall led to one of the largest volumes of precipitation in Texas history. Many areas got 12 to 18 inches. You all remember this storm right?”
The audience acknowledged. Many were on the edge of their seats. Anyone over 30 remembered this event. It was legendary, and it hadn’t happened all that long ago.
“Even by mid-March, every emergency spillway on the Brazos would still be brimming. That much water takes months to trickle down the long voyage to the Gulf. Every dam along the numerous rivers which drain the Texas watershed was at maximum capacity. I was about 11 years old at the time the rains first started falling, but I still remember Grandpa Hank summoning me to get the boats ready. Some of you remember this was just after my parents passed away, and I was living with Hank. The Gabriel was soon running half bank, which was wide enough to accommodate Grandpa’s sea-going fishing boat. He called out his neighbor, Clappy Carter and his son Crash to come along with us. Y’all remember Clappy Carter don’t you?”
He got a “Yes” from the audience. But oddly, there were a handful of strange glances, left and right. Apparently not many people recognized the name Crash. A few mouths silently asked their pew mates; “Who is Crash Carter?” This led Troy to think possibly the boy left town or no longer lived here. At any rate, they did remember old Clappy. Clappy earned that name because Hank was a George Sessions Perry fan. He nicknamed the man after Clappy Finley of Hold Autumn in Your Hands. The real-life version was somewhat of a rough old cob, and a heavy drinker.
The other thing Troy noticed; his Texan drawl had started to return. Years of living outside the state had somewhat diminished his southern voice, but it returned now with pride.
“Clappy knew more about boats than Grandpa, by far. I know I speak of my grandpa as a halfway crazy man, but he was downright Platonic compared to Clappy. That man was certifiable. He was the perfect foil for this little boondoggle. As an underwater welder, he spent most of his free time deep sea fishing when not working on oil rigs. His other hobby was scalping tickets to sporting events around Houston, which was the equivalent of day-trading in the stock market back then. Clappy was always looking to make a buck the quickest way possible, honest or not; emphasis on not. But mostly he just liked the water and the great outdoors. ”
“Hank was going down that river. All the way to the Gulf of Mexico, come hell or high walls. There were no high walls coming, but high waters sure as hell were. The rain was falling upstream near all the way to Oklahoma north and New Mexico west. In half a day or so it would all be flowing right down past us, right on down the San Gabriel. It would overwhelm the banks and cause a flood that’d make Noah himself jealous.”
Pastor Mahan accepted the fact that borderline sacrilege would be permitted today. Better than outright blasphemy, he supposed.
“We weren’t the first to make the trip, but ours would probably be the quickest. Normally the Gabriel isn’t much more than a trickle, but in December 1991, it was a raging cauldron of water 60 feet wide. Downstream, the Brazos would swell to some five miles wide in places, overcoming its banks and sprawling out into the Brazos River Valley. Grandpa Hank wasn’t going to miss the opportunity.”
“He had Clappy back the boat into the stream at Apache Pass. Two days earlier it was a low water crossing that today was anything but. It lies just upstream from the Old Worley Bridge. Grandpa, Crash, and I got in the boat, and fired up the twin inboards. We didn’t have much maneuvering room, and the water must have been running a brisk 15 miles an hour. Logs and all kinds of debris came by at a quick pace; we could hear them plink against the side of the boat. The rain still fell in sheets as the boat listed heavily to the side. I held tight to the railing, ready to dive overboard should the whole thing capsize. It was treacherous to say the least.”
“Grandpa kept the boat at a hover, trying in vain to stay near the ever expanding shoreline. Clappy put the truck in four-wheel-drive and got it out of harm’s way. He parked it next to the bridge and ran back down to the boat. We couldn’t get close enough to the bank to pick him up. The bow was too high above his head to jump aboard.”
“He and Grandpa communicated with some hand signals and yelling, and the next thing I know, the crazy son-of-a-gun Clappy took off running towards the bridge. He climbed up to the bridge and ran to the center. Crash and I had no idea what he was doing, until Grandpa threw the boat in reverse and headed for the bridge. He put full back throttle as we approached, creeping along slowly enough underneath the bridge so Clappy could jump down. As he jumped, his boot caught the edge of the railing, turning his body to a front flip, and he landed on the boat’s cabin with his left shoulder to a loud thud. Grandpa peered over the windshield to make sure he was still alive, then turned back toward Crash and I with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on his face, shaking his head, almost in tears he was laughing so hard. He pushed the throttle forward and off we went.”
“As nightfall came, we’d made it as far as Little River, which is far wider than the Gabriel. Hank pressed on. We had spotlights and flashlights scouring the water in front of us. Sometime during the night, we made it to the Brazos, and by 7 a.m., despite the rain continuing, we had enough light to see. Hank put the hammer down, and we flew down the river at 40 or 50 miles an hour, winding slowly back and forth to dodge debris. The Brazos could have passed for the Mississippi. As we neared Hempstead, we were low on fuel, and Hank made a pit stop, then ordered Crash and I to walk up a highway overpass to find fuel. It took us two hours to hitchhike to the nearest gas station and back, each lugging a five gallon jug of fuel.”
“We made it to the Gulf of Mexico in 38 hours, just as the sun was rising again. The rain subsided. We basked in the glow of the bright yellow ball as it made its way over the flat and unperturbed ocean horizon. Every single item of clothing was soaked through. All we’d had to eat were a few bags of beef jerky and potato chips, and Hank was out of beer. He drove the entire trip, never once looking fatigued. I had never seen the man so happy. It wasn’t his style to smile much, but the past two days were an exception to the rule.”
~~~
Then there was silence.
Troy neared the end of his eulogy. It came quickly. He had gotten so wrapped up in it, he was now at the end, and he started to get nervous.
The congregation was on the edge of their seats.
He grabbed two shot glasses from his pocket. He poured them full of Jim Beam whiskey from a flask. It was his grandpa’s favorite. His plan went awry as his hand was shaky, knowing that despite his humor, the stark reality now dawned that his last surviving forefather was gone, and he was essentially alone in the world.
All the joking in the world could not undo that fact.
One of the fondest memories of his childhood now crumbled under the weight of that realization. He struggled to hold it back, but unlike in the past, he could no longer keep his emotions in check. They were boiling over. It finally hit him, at the worst possible time, because this is the part he didn’t want to screw up, and he didn’t want to cry in front of the entire town.
Tears filled his eyes. He was losing focus. He lost his cool. His sadness bordered on anger. He felt he was going to embarrass himself in front of everyone.
Sometimes, it’s impressive to see a man feed on true emotion. Many in the audience began to wipe tears from their own eyes. The silence was deafening.
His hands shook almost uncontrollably as he spilled whiskey all over his fingers. This worked out so much better when he rehearsed it in his mind, absent the nerves and hundreds of pairs of tuned in eyes, hanging on his every move. He set one glass on the lectern, and with the other, raised his hand for a toast. He paused until he could speak without a quivering voice. It was no easy task.
He drank it down.
He held up the other glass.
“To Hank Benson. My grandpa. You may be gone, but we’ll never forget you.”
Here’s to you, here’s to me.
A better man I’ll never be.
Hank is gone, and it’s plain to see,
He was solid as a Post Oak tree.
He leaves a mighty legacy.
Close at heart he’ll always be.
From these shackles he is now set free.
Here’s to Hank, I drink to thee.
He slammed the glass into the floor, shattering it into a million pieces.
There was dead silence. Jaws dropped. It was the most surreal moment the church had ever witnessed.
Only the first few rows of people actually heard what he said, but it didn’t matter. They all heard the glass shatter, and it shocked them back from their condolence-laden state of mind. The physiological impact grabbed their hearts, and ripped away the hilarity that was present just seconds before. This emotional roller coaster had just hit a crescendo.
Troy wiped the tears from his eye, gathered his sheets of paper and then, slowly turned to the center, and saluted the photo of his grandfather; it was a sharp, crisp salute. He did an about-face, and headed for the exit down the center aisle, towards the far end of the church.
A few steps down the aisle, a clap pierced the silence.
Then, another. More claps, followed by two, then three.
Then a smattering of applause erupted into clapping and cheers. Before he could make it to the door for his exit, he was being grabbed, hugged, and patted.
It had been a while since he felt the town of Thorndale’s warm embrace, but just as riding a bike, it was always there. He just had to get back on and start riding. He could no longer remember what it was he had been so afraid of.
Hank was gone, but Troy Benson is back.
30. The Awakening
As you go through life, two rules will never bend, never whittle toward yourself, or pee against the wind. – Hank Benson