Southern Legitimacy Statement: I was born in Winston-Salem, NC. Dad wanted a house near his favorite uncle, so we moved to Clemmons, a village west of the city. Uncle Albert and his wife Germond lived there on a large farm cozied up against the Yadkin River. Saturday mornings, Uncle Albert and I would rise early, cross under the blanket of morning mist covering the lower forty, settle in on his small fishing pier and then fish and talk until the sun chased the mist and the two of us away. Part of me never left.
I never felt more rooted in the whine of cicadas, or the smell of honeysuckle until I left home for the first time and lived in Paris for a year as an exchange student. The French were as curious about my southern roots as I was about their history. We got along very well. They, in their wonderfully patronizing fashion deemed me “half” French. Imagine that!
God Has a Bent Mower Blade
“Yes. How may I help you?” she answered, dismayed by the disheveled salt and pepper hair of the elderly black man who had, seemingly, sprung up, Venus-like, in front of her.
Hair flying in every direction, his overalls matted with red-clay and motor oil, his smile though, was, ‘Odd, almost attractive,’ she thought.
His glimmering teeth drew in, then projected out all the available light; an expanding, restless star−shining.
“Madame, I saw your sign: Flannery’s Fix It: Mowers, Small Engines, Toasters, Taxes? Sure. Need Advice? Free. It’s my mower, my Briggs and Stratton ’53 one of the first. A dream of a workhorse and-”
“Fine!” interrupting him, “the problem?”
Nodding, he glanced at the floor, then back into her eyes, “Old man like me, has a habit of goin’ on, always lookin’ to pass the time. Sorry, ma’am. I notice you require a cane. So young! My father’s, ah, he’s a specialist, I might-”
“Never mind my problems. My situation? Just a tiny link in a wonderous chain. Your mower?”
Opening his leather valise, she took note, saying, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Gucci, but I-”
“Nice man,” he said, “One of his first customers. Great cook, as well,” as he pulled out a bent lawn mower blade.
“It’s a sight! Never saw that little stump. Stopped my mower−cold. When I flipped it over, I, ‘scuse me, ma’am.”
He pulled a satin blue silk handkerchief from his back pocket, mopped his brow, sighing, “Could really go for an ice-cold Cheerwine about now.”
Flustered, a simmering anger, about to boil, she checked her watch, thinking, ‘Yes−New York−calling me, the man said one o’clock.’
“Please! I-“
“Is that a cold drink box? There, in the back, ma’am?” he stopped her mid-sentence, motioning toward the Pepsi-Cola machine.
“Yes, so you can read. Pepsi! It says Pepsi. All the Pepsi you could possibly want. You said Cheerwine. Really, I must! It’s important−very, I should be-”
“I understand, ma’am,” he said, putting the mower blade back into his valise.
“Please, I really do understand,” as he nodded, smiling, then walked back to the Pepsi-Cola machine, looked it up and down, turned and nodded, saying,
“You’re right! Nothing but Pepsi. Not a Cheerwine in sight.”
He patted the drink machine, walked back to the counter, picked up his valise, bowed and left.
“My lord!” she whispered under her breath, “and to think they want, well−everything!”
The hands on her watch pointed to twelve-forty-five.
‘Perfect,’ she thought, as she flipped the Open sign on the front door to: Out to Lunch.
Starting back to her office, she paused, thinking a cold drink would be, ‘Revelatory.’
Her heart fluttered as she inserted a dime into the Pepsi machine. Pushing the button, she was startled, unusually so, by the loud thump of the bottle’s delivery. Pulling it out, her heart sank, ‘Cheerwine. Damn it, Leon, the distributor will pay for this. Mixing that crap in with the good stock, no sir!’
