Watermelon Days and Firefly Nights: Heartwarming Scenes from Small Town Life

by Smith, Annette

  Finally, matches were lit, and after several attempts, so were cigarettes. Three of them. Then coughs, low voices, and nervous laughter.

  Enough. Trembling with anger, Chief stood up, turned on his flashlight, and shined it into the faces of Pinkie and his cohorts. Except it wasn’t Pinkie at all. The smoking trio turned out to be Jessica Martin, Marcie Billingsly, and Alicia Turner—sputtering, terrified fifth graders who only last month had been treated to fry bread on this very spot.

  When the light hit their eyes, the three girls froze; then they screamed, dropped their cigarettes and matches, and nearly brought the teepee down as they scrambled over each other in their hurry to get out.

  “Wait! Stop!” Chief was so surprised to see the little girls that he could barely get the words out.

  “Uncle Bill? Are you in here?” It was Pinkie. Sleeping in the front room only a few feet from the teepee, Pinkie had been awakened by the commotion and now stood blinded by the flashlight Chief shone in his eyes. “Uncle Bill! What’s going on? There’s smoke in here!” Pinkie stepped inside and began stomping at a flaming rug onto which the girls had dropped their cigarettes.

  “Gracious!” said Chief, so shocked that he stood rooted to the floor. Asthmatic, he was already coughing and wheezing from the smoke.

  “Uncle Bill, get out of here.” Pinkie shoved him toward the door. “Go on! Get out!”

  Chief managed to stumble out the door, but not before inhaling enough smoke to cause him to fall to his knees, gasping for breath.

  Pinkie stayed in the teepee long enough to stomp out the fire, then joined Chief outside. “Uncle Bill? Are you okay? Should I call 911?”

  Chief, who couldn’t speak, shook his head no.

  So Pinkie helped him into a lawn chair instead.

  “Lean back, Uncle Bill. Breath real slow.” Without being asked, Pinkie ran inside the house and brought out Chief’s inhaler.

  “Thank you,” Chief gasped. He took two puffs. Within a couple of minutes, he was still coughing, but his breathing had slowed. In ten minutes, he was all right.

  “Son,” Chief said after he’d settled down, “you were something tonight—putting out the fire, helping me get out. Getting me this.” He held up his inhaler. “That was quick thinking. Most kids—lands, Pinkie—most adults would have panicked. Where did you get such a cool head?”

  Embarrassed, Pinkie looked away. “I dunno. Scouts, I guess.”

  “Boy Scouts?”

  “Yeah. Been in ’em since I was a kid. They teach you a lot. You know. Fire safety. First aid. That kind of stuff.”

  Chief couldn’t help himself. “They let you be in Scouts with your, your . . . ”

  Pinkie put his hand to his ear. “You mean these? Oh, I don’t wear ’em. Scoutmaster says he knows they don’t mean anything, but not everybody understands things that way. When I do stuff with Scouts, I take ’em out. It’s no big deal.”

  Suddenly, painfully, Chief could see that it was not.

  IF YOU EVER ARE IN ELLA LOUISE, don’t miss stopping by Chief’s museum. He’s made a lot of improvements in the past several years. The teepee no longer stands alone in his front yard. Now the structure is the focal point of a painstakingly authentic Indian household scene, complete with appropriate transplanted native plants, tools, hunting implements, and a clay oven that really bakes. Seeing the teepee is an interesting, educational experience, and one that I enjoy every time I visit.

  You should know that Chief didn’t do all this by himself. There’s no way that he could have. When visitors marvel at the detail of the Indian scene, Chief is quick to explain that his nephew, Pinkie, an Eagle Scout, comes every summer, all the way from New York, to help him out.

  Fine boy, that Pinkie is. Yes, sir. Fine boy—earrings and all.

  10

  SCARED CROW

  CROW BUXLEY LIKED TO PICK PECANS. He enjoyed the whole process of cracking their shells, prying out the meat, and—lacking a pie-baking wife—eating them out of hand. Somewhat of an expert on the wiles of nature, Crow could predict by the shell thickness of this year’s crop that Ella Louise was in for an unusually early fall and first frost.

  Some folks scoffed at Crow’s weather forecasting abilities. When they did, he pointed out that if this year’s hardy pecan shells didn’t appear convincing enough, the dense coats worn by his yard’s nut-loving gang of squirrels should be proof enough for anyone.

  So sure was Crow of his prediction that at the end of August, when Dinty Moore beef stew, tapioca pudding mix, and Martha White yellow cornmeal went on sale, he laid in a heavy supply of each. Crow knew that nothing hit the spot on a chilly day like stew and cornbread, topped off with tapioca pudding. He also timed the planting of his fall garden so as to complete his harvest early.

  Unwilling to let anyone be caught unprepared, Crow did his best to convince his neighbors that they should do the same. But August turned out to be unusually hot, with temperatures staying in the one hundreds for more than a week in a row, and few folks heeded his warnings. By the first of September, things hadn’t cooled down much, but Crow was undeterred; he began working at getting his garden ready for winter.

  His neighbor down the road, Bessie Bishop, who had been widowed just about a year ago, detoured into his garden on her morning walk. “Harvesting your greens and your squash already?” she asked. “Hardly big enough to cook, are they?”

  “Not aiming to lose ’em. In the cold. You know.” Crow, kneeling between the rows, just hated the way he talked around Bessie. Lately, his voice tended to squeak, and on occasion he could hardly get his words out. “Gonna come an early frost. Hard one.”

  “Early frost? Crow!” She put her hand on her hip in a way that Crow thought was so cute. “Almanac says we’re not likely to get a freeze until middle of November. You’re squandering a good part of your growing season.”

  “You ought to be getting your vegetables picked too. Be a shame to lose what you’ve been working on all summer.”

  Crow suddenly realized that from his position on his knees he could see a good three inches of Bessie’s slip. White. Two rows of lace. Embarrassed, he looked down and said gruffly, “If you need any help, let me know.”

  CROW’S PREDICTION turned out to be correct. By the tenth of October the air had taken on a chilly feel, which was early for a Southern climate such as Ella Louise. Then began almost a full week of cold, drizzly rain.

  And then came Crow’s predicted hard freeze. Overnight, the temperature dropped so quickly that his neighbors woke up to the sounds of their cats howling to come in and to the sight of yesterday’s green gardens turned shriveled, dark, and slimy.

  “Told you.” Crow couldn’t resist niggling Bessie as he helped her salvage what little she could of her tomatoes. “Signs were everywhere. Plain as the scab on a first-grader’s knee.”

  “If you’ll quit that gloating, I might be talked into frying us up some of these underripes.”

  “That sounds pretty good.” Crow feigned nonchalance. “Hand them ’maters over and I’ll wash them off under the outside hydrant so as to keep your kitchen sink clean.”

  “Nice of you.”

  Over their shared supper, Bessie and Crow discussed what plans they had for the upcoming week.

  “Granddaughter’s coming Wednesday,” said Crow.

  “One that’s expecting a baby?” asked Bessie.

  “Uh-huh. Angie. And she already knows that the baby’s gonna be a little boy.”

  “How nice for her. Don’t they already have two girls?”

  “Yep. With those two, we didn’t know what we were getting, but this time Angie went and had herself analyzed.”

  Suddenly Crow was overcome with embarrassment. He looked at his plate and tried to figure out how to undo what he had just done. What had come over him, to bring up female matters in mixed company? He knew better. He’d certainly been raised better. Hearing Angie speak about things so matter-of-fact caused him to let down his guard. Young folks these
days didn’t think nothing about talking about anything with anyone.

  “Bessie, I didn’t mean . . . ”

  “Was it an ultrasound or an amnio?” she asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Well, if it was an ultrasound, sometimes those are wrong. But an amnio, well, that test is almost a sure thing.”

  Crow didn’t know which test it was, but he did know that he was ready to talk about something else. “Bessie, could I trouble you for a toothpick?”

  Bessie got up to get him one from where she kept them on the windowsill above the sink. Staring out the window, she observed, “Gonna be lots of leaves this year. They’re already starting to fall. I tell you, raking leaves is one job I could do without. Makes my hay fever act up. And all that bending and stooping—my lower back aches just thinking about it. I dread doing it every year.”

  “Really? I don’t mind raking so much.” Crow sat up straighter in his chair. He could be her knight in shining armor—or at least her yard man. “Soon as I get mine all done up, I’ll come take care of yours. I imagine I can have ’em raked and bagged in a morning, and you can make me some lunch. Deal?”

  That sounded like a deal to Bessie.

  BY THE NEXT SATURDAY, Crow had raked, piled, and bagged his own yard, front and back. It was amazing how much tidier a place could look with only a day’s worth of cleaning up. He still needed to dig up his beds, but that could wait until he got Bessie’s leaves raked.

  “Coffee before you get started?” Bessie asked from her porch. She was looking pretty as a picture.

  “Naw. I already had a whole pot. If I drink any more I’ll have to . . . ” There I go again! Crow grimaced and wiped at his mouth. What is wrong with me? Why, if my daddy was alive, he’d kill me dead for discussing such things around a woman . . . “I’m fine. You go on inside. Let me get to work.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Crow raked all morning. Even in the chilly air, he worked up a sweat. By noon, the sun had come out, and he shed his jacket. “Bessie,” Crow asked after he’d finished the good lunch that she’d delivered, “I got off without a hankie this morning, and I need something to wipe my brow with. Sweat’s stinging my eyes. Have you got some old rag or a bandana I could use?”

  The pink washrag she got him worked just fine. He folded it up and tucked it into the loose-fitting waistband of his pants. The rag came in handy, and he used it several times.

  Bessie had more leaves in her yard than Crow had first thought. By 3:00 his back was complaining, and he took her up on the offer of a cold cola on the back patio. They sat in lawn chairs and looked at what he’d gotten done so far. “Almost finished,” he reported after a long swig. “All that’s really left is that big gully up next to the fence.”

  “Wind’s blown a bunch of ’em up in there. It’s pretty deep,” observed Bessie. “You best be careful. Could be snakes in that ditch. Copperheads’d be my guess. You know, I saw on the nature channel that copperheads like nothing better than to curl up under damp leaves so as to go to sleep for the winter. I don’t reckon it would be a good thing to wake up some cranky ole reptile. You wearing gloves?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well.” Bessie rose to her feet. “I’ll be getting back to my ironing.”

  “I’ll get back to those leaves.”

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate you doing this for me, Crow.”

  “Show me.” Emboldened by fatigue, he asked, “Bessie, will you go with me tonight to eat at the café? This is Friday, isn’t it? Rochelle’ll be serving catfish. All you can eat.” His heart palpitating at what he’d gone and done, Crow held his breath. This was new territory. He and Bessie had never been out on a . . . on a date. Would she go?

  Bessie stood looking up at the sky for a moment, then said, “Okay.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Crow got so excited at the thought of enjoying Bessie’s company over coleslaw and hush puppies that he went back to his raking with renewed vigor. Inspired perhaps, too, by the thought of dining on seafood, he, who couldn’t sing a lick, caught himself humming the theme from Love Boat.

  It was not until Crow got deeper into the pile of leaves that his vigorous raking and shoving of leaves into plastic bags slowed. Mixed in with the leaves were a lot of twigs and branches, long-dead weeds, and twisted vines. Seeing those vines, Crow couldn’t help but dwell on what Bessie had said about snakes. He hated snakes. His cousin got bit by one once. The snap of a twig made Crow jump. He hoped Bessie wasn’t watching through the window.

  Crow took to cautiously turning the leaves over a time or two with his rake before reaching down with his hands to scoop them into the bag. Even though he had gloves on, Crow reasoned that a snake could probably bite right through.

  An hour of turning and churning the dead vegetation resulted in only a few spooked spiders, some sleepy-eyed lizards, and a startled pair of brown toads.

  No snakes. At least that he saw.

  Well, Crow never did see one. No, he felt it. Inside his right pant leg. Soft, kind of loopy, just below his knee, but not moving at all. Crow stood stock-still.

  It moved.

  Crow froze.

  It eased down to his ankle.

  Crow’s heart pounded. Sweat broke out on his head. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  Finally, Crow threw his rake down and charged in the direction of Bessie’s front door. Every few steps, he’d pause, shake his leg, and wildly try to get shed of his pants. Not until he was right in front of Bessie’s picture window did Crow manage to get a hold of himself long enough to kick off his shoes and pull off his pants.

  Bessie, a retired nurse, had seen just about everything on a man that there was to see. But when she stepped out into the yard to shake out a rug, she drew in a startled breath when she saw Crow, in his green undershorts, poking at his pants with a stick.

  “Crow?”

  He motioned for her to stand clear. “Snake,” he panted, his eyes not moving from the bulge in his dungarees that now lay on the ground. “In my pant leg.”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  “Bessie, have you got a hoe?”

  “Of course. I’ll go get it. Are you all right? Did you get bitten? Should I call 911?”

  “Nah. Just get me the hoe.”

  Once Bessie handed him the hoe, he proceeded to chop his pants to smithereens. Only after a good dozen hacks did he think it safe to have a look.

  “Stay back,” he cautioned Bessie. “He may not be dead yet.”

  Bessie covered her eyes. “Tell me when it’s safe to look.”

  Crow hooked the end of Bessie’s hoe through a belt loop in his shredded pants, raised the pants high, and gave them a gentle shake.

  “Is it dead?” Bessie asked from behind her cupped hands.

  “Don’t know. Still in there.” Crow gave his pants another shake.

  “What about now?”

  “Uh . . . ”

  “What kind of a snake is it?”

  “It’s uh . . . not exactly . . . uh . . . ”

  Curiosity got the better of Bessie and she uncovered her eyes. Too far back to see the snake, she eased over toward the pants. Uncertain, she stayed behind Crow for protection, took hold of his arm, and leaned forward to take a look.

  “Crow?”

  She pushed up her glasses.

  “Yes.” He looked for someplace to duck.

  “That’s not a snake.”

  She had that right.

  “That’s my pink washrag. Chopped to pieces.”

  Who would have guessed that a sweat-soaked washrag sliding down from one’s waistband would feel exactly like the creeping of a dangerous reptile? Suddenly, like Adam in the garden, Crow became acutely aware of his pantsless state.

  “Crow?” Bessie said, politely averting her eyes. “Want me to drive you home so you can put on some pants?”

  Crow nodded his head and tried to hide himself behind the rake.

  “By the way
, the yard looks real nice.”

  “Thanks,” he said, staring at the ground.

  “Crow?”

  He looked up just in time to catch her wink.

  “My mama raised a conservative girl. Though those are some attractive green undershorts you’ve got on, if it’s all the same to you, do you think you could keep your pants on when I’m around?”

  CROW TOLD NO ONE about what had happened to him over at Bessie’s house. No one, that is, save his granddaughter, Angie.

  “Aw, Gramps,” said Angie. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Besides, it really could have been a snake. You could have been bitten. And if it had turned out to be a poisonous snake, why, you could have died or at least gotten really sick.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Come on, Gramps,” she said. “There’s a bright side to everything.”

  Yeah, there was. That was the point. There was a bright side, all right, and Bessie Bishop had gotten a good look at it!

  11

  WISE WOMAN

  EVERY SINGLE TUESDAY, Faye Beth Newman receives a bouquet of flowers from her husband, Harvey. Sometimes she gets daisies, other times it’s red roses or pink carnations. As soon as the florist delivers the new batch, Faye Beth tosses last week’s flowers in the garbage. She displays the fragrant arrangements on the corner of her desk at the Chamber of Commerce, where she has worked for the past seven years. Though Faye Beth throws the old flowers away, she saves the vases. Harvey doesn’t know it, but to help him out, every month or so she gathers the vases up and takes them down to the florist so that they can be used again. Harvey gets a discount because of it.

  Since the Chamber of Commerce shares a building with Tawny’s Quick Tan, a lot of folks come in and out of the building. Faye Beth’s flowers always draw attention.

  Last Tuesday an arrangement of lemon-yellow daylilies graced her desk. The flowers caught the eye of Janet Evans, who had stopped in to fuss to the mayor about some potholes in front of her house. “You’re still getting flowers every week? Harvey’s so romantic. I’m lucky if my Ray remembers to send me a single rose on our anniversary. Last year he got me a weed whacker and a new pair of garden gloves. Now, does that make a gal’s heart go a-flutter or what?”