The Great Ark

by T. C. Driver

  Two local farmer's daughters were close school and church friends with my wife, Patty Cracker. These pretty, farmer's daughters were scorned and hated by both of Patty's sisters. They were scorned so badly that it became a source of constant embarrassment to me as a young son-in-law. The biter envy that sister one, HEDDIE, and sister three, DEBBIE, had for these two farmer's daughters with their Eigner handbags and fancy 'store bought' J.C. Penny clothes was nearly too much for the selfish, evil, 'wanna be' stepsister duo to suffer. My own young wife, Patty, in sharp contrast, worried little about social status or fancy things. Patty was popular in school and had many dates, friends and activities. She sang in church and in the school choir. She was a talented artist with a giving nature; a classic 'middle sister' personality. Patty often did the other sister's hair, their decorating, flower arrangements, etc. She had the heart of a servant. Patty was the one, of course, taking care of their Mother the night she was taken to the hospital and died. The other sisters had 'no time'. My wife's sisters spent a lifetime despising 'Momma's favorite'. For example, my Patty was not asked to be in either of her sister's weddings, while they were both in hers. Pure, cold vindictiveness ruled their lives! This evil sister duo did little or nothing in school or church, and were very much ashamed to bring school friends home and stayed angry at Patty for constantly bringing her friends and dates around the house. These girls were genuinely ashamed of their own family, of their simple home, of their Father's never come clean dirty work hands and their Mother's simple country, slang speech. Yes, this poor, selfish, step-sister “wanna be” duo was embarrassed of and by their own loving parents.

  No pain this deep or grievous have I personally known or had to bear. Truly my heart has always wept for them; in soul and in spirit. This heavy burden of pain, shame, uncontrolled anger and envy has controlled them and enslaved them in misery, all the days of their lives!

  The older sister, HEDDIE, called Sissy, had a crazy looking 'lazy eye' which was getting much better now with the use of store bought 'doctor medicine'. She grabbed up young Paul Goldwater in marriage before he 'went off' to school. Paul's eccentric parents never spoke to Sissy, even unto their death. She was never 'good enough' for little Paul. Sissy was wise and played her cards right. She saw Paul as her way out; her way up; her ticket to the better half side. Sissy helped put Paul through ten years of college and a doctorate degree and then became his house slave for life. That is when she started 'losing it'; a family mental disorder, or condition that the Cracker family is known for. Old Crackers reach a point when they stop bathing, shaving and or cutting their nails. They stand around urinating on themselves and mumbling nonsense. This condition starts like clockwork in their sixties and is often referred to as the curse or the HEDDIE syndrome (after Sissy's namesake). It is well known, affecting a full third of all Crackers. When Sissy started going downhill, Paul put her into the Catawba Hospital Sanitarium. This was done soon after all parents were dead. Now Paul and his equally selfish daughters have abandoned Sissy completely. No one in the family had the heart or unselfish love it takes to care for another human being. Now Paul, after his own Father's death, has proudly come out of the closet late in life, a badge of honor in his sick, academic circles. Although Sissy and I were never close, I have always despised Paul for using her so and treating her so badly. Just part of his selfish nature, I guess.

  Sarah woke up and we both took a toilet break, trying not to wake the others. Bo Dave was the only one up as we sat down again. The loud drone of the turbo props made conversation difficult so hand gestures ruled our communication. Seats in the plane were of military transport or cargo design, not as of airline seats. Bo and I sat facing each other. Sarah had curled up with her back toward Bo. As Bo and I passed the dope back and forth, my reaching would cause Sarah's short skirt to 'shine' Bo. We were both cracking up laughing. Goldwater, still up front, shook his head and said 'pervert'. Bo and I laughed too loud. I tried not to look at crazy Bo Dave again to avoid laughing and stared instead out the plane's one big window once again.

  The youngest sister, DEBBIE, was spoiled by her parents as best they could and was ten years younger than my wife and I. Her angry, selfish, stubborn nature even surpassed that of Paul Goldwater. At least Paul had a good sense of humor.

  “I know this one is trouble” her Mother would say. Or “we can't do anything with her” or “I've got my eye on her. Fact was, neither parent could control little DEBBIE. She screamed at both her parents with little remorse or mercy throughout her youth. By her senior year in high school, she demanded a shiny red Camaro. She was used, but in good condition (the car I mean). She also demanded that she live off-campus at college (neither older sister would dare). The child-whipped parents always gave into their baby girl. Mother was already working a rare, full-time, extra job to help with the school costs. Her parents gave up a big vacation planned for years and also a trade of the family car for DEBBIE to have her every whim. Our cute little DEBBIE, of course, thought nothing of their sacrifice. For the next twenty-five years, little DEBBIE and her husband Barnie, were always slow to visit and even more quick to leave the Cracker house. This wounded her poor mother to heart. The couple would not let Mother buy Christmas or birthday gifts as she did for the rest of the family. Mother did not have taste; she bought cheap stuff; not the right brand names. All gifts had to be first approved by DEBBIE. Just before my mother-in-law died, this lonely old woman missed her grand kids so much that she would beg over the phone to be allowed to come to Greensboro for a visit. Little DEBBIE would most often say “This is not a good weekend, no, not tonight mom!” The countless times I consoled their crying Mother after she was rejected by DEBBIE and Barnie was, I suppose unknown to them. That and how close we still were during my divorce and estrangement. Yes, even right up to her Mother's death. The heartache this young brat caused her saintly Mother was shameful.

  Young DEBBIE was a cute, more than pretty child. Now at fifty, her bitter continence is most disturbing to look upon. DEBBIE was 'hot' by sixteen, but was never model or prom queen beautiful. She was classic hillbilly jail-bait, a hot sizzle, a temptation; with little personality or depth. DEBBIE was usually dumped by the popular boys she dated soon after 'giving it up'. Her Mother would say to me that David, Mark or Brian (fill in the blank) had treated our poor little DEBBIE so bad! Like her older sister, she married to 'get out'. Her 'Barnie Fife' preppie looked like a great catch, never mind that he killed a friend at college; his parents drove a 'new car' a Ford LTD. With young Alfred Barney Head and DEBBIE it was love at first ride. One particular night when she was sixteen, the still young and still innocent DEBBIE spread her, I supposed, virgin flower before me. Masturbation was her specialty, an early childhood obsession. And now with years of practice under her belt, she was getting damn good at it. My seeing of her naked, spread on her bed masturbating (on the way to my shower), made her so hot that she tossed and screamed for relief. As her body arched upwards off the bed, a violent orgasm shook her frame completely. For fun, I let my towel drop, teasing her to a raging frenzy. I then continued to my shower and on to work that early morning. Back then, I had considered it an act of wisdom, or even one of chivalry, not to have taken her virginity when offered; in her moment of weakness. Only months later, her parade of boyfriends started. Her love lust, or crush on me, quickly flipped upside down into hate. There would be no more flirting or even talking much between us after that one early morning. I found out many years later that being scorned of her affection had pierced her deeper than any penis could have. Forty years later, she would have her Podifer's wife moment of revenge on me. 'No good deed goes unpunished'. That old saying is true, it seems, and goes double when you're dealing with a Cracker Head.

  As our plane finally landed in Thailand, some twelve hours after taking off, I was still staring out into the darkness below. I remembered how the two sisters shamelessly conspired against my ex-wife Patty for petty, personal gain in their blessed Mother's modest estate. How they hu
ngered all their life for 'class'; something I was born into. Though landing good paying jobs as adults, these poor Cracker sisters could never rise above the low estate of their birth. This was true simply because the two angry sisters had brought shame to their own family. Sick, class envy has scarred and shamed them their whole lives. What a sad, meaningless way this is to spend one's time here on earth. My own siblings, three boys and three girls, some of us making middle class incomes, some not, were all instilled with rich family heritage from a young age. We knew class did not come from our bank accounts, but rather the other way around. Many years ago, our Great Grandmother had helped found a small college. We are a proud family with history and heritage. Yes, we knew some powerful people, but we also knew that class was more than money. My own 'blessed' and 'easy life' always 'ate their guts out' on the better half side of the family. (A title to one of my songs) honor thy Father and Mother for the promise of a long life. God is true to his word, are you? Standing up for the few, the weak, that is class!

  Truly I loved Patty's parents like my own. I was closer to them and spent more time with them, and respected them more that the selfish sister sibling duo ever did. This is a true, sad fact of their pathetic lives ruled by envy, hate and unforgiveness. The ability to pray the Lord's Prayer and mean it is all important in this world. The presence of God is where true class comes from at any level. My Father, the real Cornelius, once asked a group of businessmen bidding on government contracts to name the name of a porter or waiter in the large downtown hotel where they were all staying. How a man treats those who serve below him is good insight into his true character. Kiss-ass people are everywhere. My Father was not wealthy, but he had class in black tie or out.

  Goldwater and I joked on the runway. We took a few parting stabs at each other. Sarah and I hugged; no big kiss this time. We both knew 'our summer romance' was over. Sarah got on a commercial flight meeting the 'shopping girls' from home and the ship. None of us yet knew that she had won her race and was already carrying the next Cornelius from our short, air show honeymoon. She would beat both her sisters and her brother to the Coe baby download punch by one month.

  I called my ex-wife Patty back in Virginia as was my custom every few weeks or so. We talked longer this time; a very good sign. She lived back in Roanoke, in our same old house. Patty was always the love of my life. Patty kicked me out when I went middle-age crazy with a nineteen-year-old wanna-be model, but she has long forgiven me now. A truly saintly woman she is. I do count her as my wife under God. The Roanoke County divorce we both signed seems not to account for much when weighed against our vows to God and our lives together. I pray that one day she will once again receive me as her husband. A gift I truly don't deserve. Why is it that sometimes in this life we just don't know?

  After a long sleep in a cheap hotel in Thailand, and now all by myself, I found myself not much fun to be with. I awaited the landing gear fix to our planes. They had been flown on a large Russian cargo plane disassembled and were not here yet.

  The next days were like pulling off the fast lane on a country interstate highway, stepping out to take a leak on the side of the road, and locking yourself out of your car. Another world, just outside yours that you have now stepped into, has now become yours. Solitaire, red wine, the Holy Bible, TV movies and the road side soup vendors helped me abide the long, hot days. The third week, on the third floor of this rat and cockroach infested old hotel which was also three blocks from the old base main gate and located on Third-Street. This night would bring personal pain and terror the likes of which I had often inflicted on others, but had never experienced my self.

  An explosion in the hotel lobby brought down much of the front of the building. My room was now open to the sky and street below. The force and burn from the blast downstairs left me stunned, in pain, and out of focus. Being part drunk on red wine and lying in a sturdy old metal bed with wheels was the last piece of protection that helped shield me.(in man's eyes) I stumbled out of the burning bed into a smoke filled hallway, falling down and crawling on my belly gasping for air. I now slithered like a snake down the stairs. There were many rats in this old hotel all using the same stairs I was. I then felt cool cement on my bare belly and what I believed was the metal corner of a green dumpster before I passed out.

  Some weeks later, judging by the beard on my face, I awoke in still another metal bed with small metal wheels. I was the patient in six beds, with one bright bulb in a center ceiling pull string socket. I was alive! Burned on side and hurting like hell! An Indian woman nurse, with traditional scarf and nose jewel added to her nursing clothes, spoke something non-English as she reached up toward my IV drip and I was back in la-la land.

  I would wake up now and again. Each time my medication would be adjusted and back out I would go. My third time awakening, I saw Unk talking to a policeman in the hallway before I blacked out again.

  The seventh time I awoke, my room was different. It was dark and very quiet. There were voices and flashlights roaming outside. I got up and looked out through large, dusty plate glass windows. The power was out. I grabbed some sheets, two wool blankets, a smock, and sweat pants and put the roll over my shoulder. Was this a prison, a hospital, or maybe both? Guess I picked the right clothes; for my escape was uneventful. The gate personnel paid me no mind as I walked out. I then began walking and sleeping by the roadside. My wool blankets were my only refuge and comfort. I had wanted to throw them down to lighten my load, but I was now glad that I had not done so. As I curled up on a bank of tall grass, hearing and smelling water, but not seeing it, I was surprisingly comfortable, at ease and free. I thanked God for my life and wondered why I was back in India? This had to be India and not Thailand, or else I was losing my mind. I would later learn that twenty-six weeks had 'gone by' since the blast. The first night I slept well, but I was unaware. How often in this life we just don't know. Does our knowing, or not knowing, even matter?

  In the morning, I walked down a steep ravine onto an ancient, wood covered and well worn path. There were huge trees and fancy tiles and bricks. Often the path had a hard surface, but in some places the path was only smooth-packed dirt; cool to my bare feet. The water was not fast moving, but rather gurgling out of pipes here and there into deep, clear pools. Maybe it was for irrigation, a water system or maybe a sewer system? The main road was always close by and usually above me. On this path, I met others often; one third or so were on bikes. Some carried heavy burdens, struggling on their way. Most often I was alone in solitude and beauty. Each man I passed smiled, spoke and was very polite. The women, it seemed, would rather not be spoken to. They all preferred a slight nod of the head. Watching one old man pull up a tall, straight, stemmed plant and use the long stem to wash it off in the water was fascinating. He broke off the stem, pulled off the fine hair-like roots and then ate the center part on his way. This plant, with a white, bent root was a blessing; a comfort. Truly the plant helped me survive. The third night, I arose early, awakened by many men above. A big tour bus was being towed back onto the main highway, out of the woods just above me. The men came close, shining their lights over me as they hooked up the bus. I lay quiet, not very well hidden in my trusty wool blankets. On the back of the big bus was written: THE BZ BROTHERS BLUES BAND in fancy gold letters. Soon, my still water path was indeed still again. In peace, I drifted off to sleep. Not having my Bible, I repeated the 23rd psalms over and over; always 'once more' before sleep. I was so glad Mom made me learn it by heart.

  The next evening, after another day's travel, I again stopped to rest. The water path was fancy, even majestic, here, graced with many white stone arch bridges and large beautiful statues surrounded with colorful tiles. In the cove before me were two of these white stone bridges, also a bronze statue of a woman drawing water with a long, smooth vase. The kind people often make lamps or fancy whiskey bottles out of. In the deep, still water, her reflection looked like it was also drawing water. This effect was something to see. It was somet
hing to ponder over. I stared, lingering for some time, for I was worn and tired. The water then rippled her perfect reflection and a stiff cool breeze hit my face as it moved through the trees and across the still water. I remembered the words of Jesus.

  Spirit is as of the wind, and like the wind has the power to show the truth. I heard a voice say “behold”.

  Startled and awakened, I quickly hastened on my way, sorry for dozing off. Only a short way down the path, I stopped to rest again, my strength gone out of me for the day. This time I stopped on one of the beautiful, white stone bridges. Looking down into the water, I saw my bearded, scraggily, old self.

  “Hello, Cornelius” I said out loud. “You look kind of rough today, old boy. No wonder the women in India will not speak to you (ha-ha)! Down in the water below me was another bridge; a perfect reflection of the one I was standing on. The God was engraved on both bridges into the large center stone at the top of each arch. This false reflection bridge was 'given away' by the word God! The word read backward? Yes, the word of God has the power to show one the truth. “Yes” I said to myself.

  I drew weary again and made my bed for the night, just off and up the hill from the path. Pondering the wonderful things I had seen that day, I prayed “Lord that your servant Cornelius might see the truth.” As I dozed off, I saw across the high tree tops far above me the edge of a man's little finger. As if a huge giant, much too big for this world, with his hand laid around me, was lying close by. With all the courage I could muster, I said “Speak, oh giant” and bowed. I trembled in fear as he spoke.

  “Do not worship me, Cornelius! I am but your fellow servant1 give all glory and honor to God in the highest! You have learned well today! Look seeker of truth! Behold fellow servant!”