Karma Redirected

by Mike Morris

  I was saved and amazed, and as the band turned around, I was thinking two things, “With all these different parts being played, he knew what the bass drummer was supposed to be playing?” and “Did the drum just play itself?” I looked down and saw Rolf with a stick in his hand, still reaching up to the bass drum. No one had seen him except the other drummers. That was a close one. I had better learn how to read music. Rolf started teaching me that day after school. He was a great teacher – very analytic – breaking everything down in such a simple way. Rolf went on to get a PhD in Chemistry and became a department chair at Stanford Research Institute in California, credited with writing many research papers in scientific journals. We connected decades later, and he was working for a large pharmaceutical company in California and driving a red Corvette convertible through the Redwood National Park.

  51

  Holy Guerilla and Holy Dating

  Small towns in the south are full of stuff – football, gossip, cliques, racism, social order, churches. Although my mom was the daughter of a preacher and had sung as part of a family gospel group, and although she had a strong Christian faith, she avoided attaching herself to any of the many churches in Jacksonville. An assortment of church parishioners visited her and attempted to pull her into their flock. Although I do not remember, she claims she and Melody joined the Methodist church, and Melody actually sang in the choir. However, as far as I was concerned, her lack of a strong attachment to any particular church allowed me to be kind of a free agent.

  Jobe McCorky, a fellow drummer, was a member of the First Baptist Church. I don’t think there was a Second or Third Baptist church, but the First Baptist Church was clearly the largest church in Jacksonville. I think Jobe may have been responsible for the First Baptist Church knowing about me, and they recruited me to play on their basketball team. The quarterback for the high school football team was on this church team as well as a few other jocks – one being Larry Waters. Larry and I eventually became pretty good friends. He was not a typical Jacksonville jock because he had not grown up in Jacksonville. Like a handful of other students at Jacksonville, he was a military brat. His father had been stationed at a nearby military base. Tragically, his father committed suicide, and Larry’s family relocated to Jacksonville and remained there.

  The First Baptist Church of Jacksonville launched a crusade on the courts to conquer rival houses of worship, clashing in a profane pastime. This crusade was so serious that they delved into the world of mercenary heathens and recruited me to be their point guard. Our coach was a former player who had starred in college, but suffered a career-ending injury while struggling to go professional. He seemed to me to be very sad. I think that motivated me to try hard to help him be successful. We won the county championship on a shot I made at the buzzer. The truth is that I had no idea what the score was or how much time was on the clock when I grabbed a rebound and put up a shot. I just knew the game had gotten very intense and frantic. As soon as the shot went in, the buzzer sounded and people went crazy. We advanced through the regionals before being blown out in the finals by a much larger church with a team blessed with an abundant sprinkling of talented heathens.

  My first date in Alabama was with a preacher’s daughter – the Reverend Black’s daughter. My cousin Jedell – the same Jedell who spun the “Mary the Frog and the snake” tragedy – had been convinced by some of my aunts to set up a double date to help me assimilate into small town life in the South. When Jedell told me my date was with the Reverend Black’s daughter, he said it in a way that conveyed a secret meaning – kind of like a nudge, nudge, wink, wink. People in small towns in the South always seemed to be saying something in a way that suggested something that I never seemed to get. Anyway, I don’t remember her name, but the impression Jedell’s communication made on me was confusion. I thought maybe I should be afraid of Reverend Black and felt a sense of uneasy anticipation. I envisioned someone who looked like Mr. Wotts – the metal shop teacher from Hellincrest. Except this guy would have a white collar on to go with his coiled mustache, wild hair, and evil eye.

  Jedell picked me up in a fine-tuned, somewhat elegant hot-rod. He informed me that we were going to pick up some pink champagne before picking up the reverend’s daughter and his date. I was a little confused because the county I lived in, as well as all the surrounding counties were dry counties – meaning alcohol was illegal. However, exuding total confidence, Jedell took me on a somewhat scary adventure.

  Driving on endlessly curving country roads that wound up and down and around, but always appeared to be exactly the same, he acted as though he was oblivious to what I believed – that we were totally lost. I think I probably asked him a couple of times, “Do you know where we are?” Eventually, in the deepest nooks of nowhere, Jedell took a turn down a dirt road that looked to lead even deeper into darkness. Suddenly, the road ended and Jedell stopped the car. I assumed he was about to confess he was as lost as I was, but he turned off the engine and said, “Come on.” We proceeded to exit the vehicle.

  I followed Jedell a few steps before I realized we were approaching an old, dark, decrepit shack. Jedell instructed me not to say anything and led me around to the back of the run-down hovel. He stepped up to the door and knocked two times, paused, and knocked once more. We stood silently, waiting. After a few moments he repeated the knock exactly the same way as the first time. Again we stood in silence. A few moments later, Jedell repeated the ritualistic knock. Just as I was thinking, “Man, nobody even lives in this creepy place. Let’s get out of here,” a soft voice from the other side of the door asked, “Who’s dat?”

  Jedell explained, “He’s my cousin. He’s okay.”

  After a pause, the voiced queried, “Whad-yo wont?”

  “Pink champagne – two bottles if ya got it.” Jedell stated this with what seemed to be joviality.

  Nothing else was said after that. A few moments later the door cracked wide enough for a hand to appear. Jedell placed a wad of money into the hand, and it disappeared back into the house. Another moment passed and then two bottles of pink champagne were pushed out through the small crack of the slightly opened door. Jedell took the two bottles, handed them to me, and we walked silently back to the car. We got in, and as far as I know we drove back the way we had come, leaving that mysterious, gloomy shack.

  Arriving in another town, we pulled up to a small house where two girls appeared to be waiting at the door. They quickly walked toward the car. Jedell told me to get in the back seat where I was soon joined by the Reverend Black’s daughter. Jedell’s girlfriend got in the front and we sped away. On the outskirts of town we turned onto a gravel road and approached a wrought iron overhang with the words prominently displayed – Piedmont Cemetery. We drove up the hill and parked, surrounded by buried bodies and overlooking granite tombstones. There we sat safely inside the car and drank both bottles of pink champagne

  As morbid as it might seem, I have fond memories of my maiden date in Alabama. Although I never saw the Reverend Black’s daughter again, the romantic setting of gravestones and pink champagne must have worked for Jedell and his date because they eventually married and are still married over 50 years later.

  52

  Snaky

  In an effort to find a place in the social order of Jacksonville but having no clue what that might look like, I became something of a participant observer. Sitting at a table in study hall, I studied a guy sitting across from me as he slept. Sleeping like that in a room full of other people was something you would never do in Hellincrest. That would be like sleeping in a room full of poisonous snakes. However, this guy was sleeping soundly without any apprehension about his surroundings. Maybe my incredulous staring woke him up, because he sort of grunted, slightly lifted his head, and drawled, “It sure is sleepy in ‘ere.” However, my stare did not seem to faze him, because he immediately returned to his slumber. For the rest of the period, I tried to determine what “sleepy in ‘ere” meant.

 
; Sleeping in public seemed to be a respected pastime in Jacksonville society. During English class, a fellow was snoozing so soundly that he began snoring. Everyone seemed to be ignoring him – even the teacher. This fella’s face was flattened against his desk, and his textbook rested on his head. Eventually his snoring got so loud it was becoming impossible to hear the teacher over his gross snorting and wheezing. Finally surrendering to this remarkable racket, the teacher attempted to gently rouse him from his slumber by softly calling his name – several times. In an effort to assist the teacher, a classmate sitting next to him yelled in his ear, “Wake up!”

  His neck sort of uncoiled and his head lifted. He menacingly hissed, “I was jus’ readin’ dis ‘ere book.” There was a brief moment of silence, then a few uncomfortable chuckles. He flicked his tongue, slithered his arms about, put his head back down on his desk, and returned to hibernation. Class continued.

  Another member of Melody’s fan club was Johnny Spring. Based on my biased observations, Johnny Spring was the perfect Jacksonvillian – a sort of country bumpkin who maneuvered freely through the world of small town conventions. He played both football and basketball, which were key building blocks for a golden pedestal of societal respect. Upon this solid, secure stage, Johnny Spring presented an unassuming cordiality, currying further favor with the locals. Since my new life in Jacksonville had exposed to me a lack of any awareness of a true identity on my part, I intuitively began to mold myself into what I perceived Johnny to be. What I didn’t know at the time was that Johnny – a true country bumpkin who viewed Jacksonville as this bustling metropolis – viewed me as a city slicker and the true Jacksonvillian. He was trying to model himself after me. Muddled by this faulty vision, we became close comrades.

  Johnny and Larry decided to take me fishing. Since I was a “Yankee city slicker,” they had to give me multiple warnings about the dangers of going fishing down by the creek. The main problem was snakes – water moccasins! For my protection, they explained that when we travelled through the woods toward the creek, Johnny would go first, followed by Larry, then me. That way if there were any snakes they would spot them. All this warning really did was scare the stuffing out of me. I had inherited my father’s fear of snakes. So as we walked through the woods, my eyes stayed peeled on the path up ahead, searching for snakes.

  When we arrived at the creek, we continued down the path, walking along the bank. My eyes were searching the path ahead – combing over every stick and stone – scrutinizing every inch of the pathway as it came into my vision. Johnny and Larry strolled carelessly, joking and conversing in some foreign language that small town people from the South speak.

  Suddenly I spotted the object of my greatest fear! Up ahead, lying across the path – a snake! As Johnny and Larry approached it, I tried to call out a warning – but panic closed my windpipe and I couldn’t get a sound out. I just pointed and sort of hopped up and down, which, since I was safely behind them – for my protection – they were totally unaware. As I bounced about, waving my arms, and choking on the sounds I was desperately trying to get out, Johnny cluelessly stepped over the snake. I became more frantic, waving my arms about, grunting, and pointing crazily. Then Larry stepped over the snake. Finally, sound erupted from my being, “Snake!”

  Larry and Johnny jumped off the path looking about. As my friends stood confused, I launched into an insane routine. I quickly grabbed three large sticks. I thrust one into the hands of a befuddled Johnny, one into the hands of an equally befuddled Larry, and launched into rabid instructions. “Okay, I’ll hit it, then you hit it, then you hit it, then I’ll hit it…” and before Larry or Johnny could fathom what I was saying, I began insanely pounding the snake – sort of like using two hands to play a one-handed drum roll with a very large stick. Johnny and Larry looked on in horror as I pummeled the snake, striking it about 25 times within a 10-second span.

  After I had pounded the snake, I pushed its pulverized carcass off the bank into the creek and watched for a moment as it floated down stream. Johnny and Larry stood frozen, wondering what had just happened. Their belief that all Yankees were insane was confirmed.

  53

  Gigging and Hunting

  I was no better at frog gigging than I was at fishing in Alabama creeks. My Uncle Friar lived a couple of hours away in Georgia and, along with my cousins, was a master of frog gigging. They invited me to go gigging with them one night. We went out after it was dark to a large pond in the middle of some Georgia woods. There are three main jobs when frog gigging. Someone is responsible for shining a flashlight around the edges of the pond, attempting to spot a couple of eyeballs. Once the eyeballs are detected, the flashlight guy has to hold the light on the eyes, sort of hypnotizing the frog so it doesn’t move. Then the guy with the gig, sneaks up on the mesmerized frog, holds the gig a few inches above the frog, then “pow!” gigs the frog. The gig is a three-pronged tool – kind of a large fork on the end of a long stick. Once the frog is gigged, then it is handed over to the guy carrying the sack. The sack guy drops the frog into his sack. With the gigged frog secured in the sack, the team moves on to the next victim.

  I was presented the gig and assigned the honor of “frog gigger.” My cousin Windale slowly guided the flashlight’s beam around the edge of the pond. I held the gig, standing silently and following the glimmer of light. Then, like a miracle, two little beady eyeballs appeared. As Windale held the light steady, with great agility I approached from the side, slowly, carefully, gently stepping, until I was in range of my target. I held the gig a few inches above the large frog. I tensed slightly and thrust the gig! Somehow I missed the large frog. He leaped from the bank, into the air, and splashed safely into the pond.

  My cousins took the gig away from me and handed me the sack. I had been demoted, but I still held the important duty as sack-man. The sack was tied around my shoulders and hung like a back pack. Despite the fact that I had once suffered lasting trauma while dissecting frogs in biology class, as each gigged frog was handed to me, I courageously, coolly and casually accepted it, reached back and dropped it into the sack. Frog after frog – dozens I dropped into the sack. I was doing my job fearlessly and effortlessly – like a pro.

  After a very triumphant two-hour gigging expedition, we headed back to the car –victorious! However, as we neared the car, I began to think about the sack on my back. Although it was supposed to be full of frogs, it felt kind of light – very light. In fact, it felt empty. And sure enough, when we opened the trunk of the car to place the sack of frogs into it, we were struck with the painful realization that after two hours of frog gigging, somehow the sack was void of frogs. It was completely empty. Apparently, as I had reached back to drop the frogs into the sack, I had actually missed the sack and dropped them on the ground. After a deathly silence at the back of the car, we all got in and drove silently to my uncle’s. They never took me gigging again. However, on visiting my uncle some years later, he fried up 38 frog legs for me, and I ate them all. One of the best meals ever!

  Johnny Spring did take me deer hunting. He let me use his rifle and he borrowed his father’s new rifle – without his father knowing he had borrowed his father’s new rifle. We met his cousin Claude and another rugged Alabama-type guy named Goober, and they drove us to a cabin deep in the Alabama woods. We arrived in the late afternoon and began drinking an assortment of beverages designed to kill the pain of a bitterly cold day. The later it got, the colder it got, and the colder it got, the more we needed this assortment of beverages to fend off the attacking chill.

  The plan was to leave early in the morning before daylight so we could get positioned before the unsuspecting deer began moving about. After drinking so much to stay warm and having fallen asleep due to a fabricated feeling of well-being that the warmth-arousing beverages had created, Claude’s wee hours of the morning wake-up call elicited great suffering. I think after having drunk so much, I believed deer hunting wasn’t about killing deer but about killing an a
ssortment of alcoholic beverages. Nevertheless, full of warmth-arousing potions, we were up and headed off into the darkness to prepare an ambush.

  Claude sent Johnny and me off in one direction, and he and Goober were to go in another. Truthfully, I am not sure he and Goober even left the cabin. However, Johnny and I headed off into the pitch black with me clutching a rifle in one hand and holding onto Johnny’s back with the other hand as he led the way. It was so dark, I could not even see Johnny in front of me. We travelled this way, slowly – gingerly stepping through the blackness of the woods with me careful not to lose contact with Johnny’s back. I do not think I ever reached a comfort level with this mode of travel, but as uncomfortable as it was, it suddenly got worse. Johnny abruptly disappeared from my contact, and a discordance of noisy thumps and bangs and clangs rang out in front and below me. I froze. After a moment I heard Johnny’s voice from somewhere down below say, “Don’t move.”

  Apparently, Johnny had literally gone over the edge. Since neither of us could see, we decided to wait until either it got lighter or our eyes adjusted to the darkness. Eventually, the sun started to come up and we were able to see well enough to get Johnny out of this narrow crevice he had fallen into. Johnny, who was an iron-man – one of the toughest guys I ever knew – was okay, but his father’s brand new rifle was broken.

  After sharing brief thoughts and prayers for the damaged rifle, we hiked to a clearing and hid at the tree line, waiting for a deer to walk out into the open meadow. None did. Any nearby deer probably wisely decided to avoid a couple of noisy, clueless humans. Suffering long enough from cold and hangovers, we tried to escape our pain by walking. We quickly realized we were totally lost. A couple of hours later we found a dirt road and decided it had to lead somewhere, so we chose a direction and on down the road we roamed.