| Biographical Non-Fiction posted May 8, 2010 |
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Life is Like a Bookshelf
Rabbit
by bhogg
Sometimes, you can view your life as a bookshelf. Depending on where you are, that shelf might be full, or just starting. In my case, it is pretty full, darn near overflowing. It's full of kid's stories, drama, comedy, novels and books of sheer poetry. To keep things tidy, it helps to have bookends. I have one on the left hand side, but the right hand side is still open; hopefully, more pages to be written and books to add.
My bookend on the left is an old black man named Virgil Gates. Part of this is purely chronological. Virgil came into my life in 1955, when I was just 6 years old. There are things to the left of that bookend, but they are mostly scattered pages and fragments of stories.
I'll never forget when I first met Virgil. My father had just finished a tour of duty in Japan and we had all summer to wait between assignments, at the family place in West Central Georgia. It was late June and hot. I was looking up the dirt road and had to rub my eyes. There appeared to be two people walking right on top of each other on what looked like water. The air around this apparition was shimmering and wavy. I know now that it was a simple mirage created by mid-day heat on the road bed. For a six year old boy, it just looked strange.
"Grandma - something strange is a walkin down the road."
She put her ice tea down, smoothed her summer frock, and with her hand shielding her eyes took a look. "Billy, that ain't nothin strange, that's just old Virge come down to help your Grandpa put the mules in the harness. They're going to plow some of the new ground up."
I looked again. The heat shimmer disappeared as he got closer, and I could tell that it was an old black man. He was not a large man, actually quite slim. There were crinkles around his large expressive eyes. His teeth, when smiling, looked like the keys on my grandma's piano. He was dressed in the same fashion as I always saw him from that day on. He had on a pair of blue denim overalls, a long sleeve blue and white striped cotton shirt, a railroad engineer's cap and brogans on his feet. Virge walked in a way I'd never seen. It's like he would plant one foot in front of himself and then glide forward the rest of his body to catch up with that foot. My grandma saw me once trying to copy that walk. She just laughed, saying, "You ain't got it in you to walk like that."
Virgil tipped his hat to my grandma as he said, "Hey Ms. Louise. I'm here to help Mr. Horace with dem mules. Who dat little tow head boy on da rocker?"
"Hey Virgil - thanks for coming. That there's Mr. Jack's middle boy, Billy. His brothers Johnny and Bobby are around some where. Billy - take Virgil around back. Your grandpa is waiting on him."
For the first and last time, Virgil addressed me in the way that was so common in the South those days. "Mr. Billy - how old you be?"
I had pretty clear directions on how to address older people, so I responded, "Mr. Gates, I'm six. You don't have to call me Mr., just Billy. That's what everybody calls me." He continued the Mr. and Ms. connection with all my family; even my brothers were Mr. Johnny and Mr. Bobby. Me though, he treated special. He called me Rabbit.
He also asked me not to call him Mr. "You do dat, and I be lookin aroun to see who you talkin to."
My grandma once asked Virgil why he called me Rabbit. "Cuz he's like the rabbit. He sits still and quiet, but all da time, he's pointin dem ears and movin dem eyes all around. He takin it all in. Ain't nobody gonna get one by de rabbit!" For whatever reason, it stuck. Everybody started calling me Rabbit. I didn't mind.
My brother John and I fought all the time, and my brother Bob was just a baby. By default, Virgil became my best friend. I asked my father once how old Virgil was. His answer said it all. "I'm not sure, but Virgil was an old man when I was your age." I later found out that Virgil was 92.
The next summer, when I was seven years old, Virge took me fishing. We went to gather worms before going. Virge told me we would go to the best place on Earth to get those worms. We walked to the edge of grandma's garden where she kept her compost pile. Virge handed me the shovel. "Rabbit - you need to brush that stuff off''n de top and that's where we find de worms."
Squinting up my eyes, I told Virge, "That ain't no stuff, that's cow poop. That stuff is nasty."
"Now Rabbit, ain't nothin God made nasty! Let me show you sumpin." Virge moved back the very top surface, which was a lot of manure, but also kitchen scraps, leaves and other forms of compost. As he brushed back the surface, it was like magic. Worms were going everywhere. We grabbed a couple of handfuls and split them up between two tin cans. "Rabbit - here's de thing. God is pretty smart. Them cows poop and your grandma throws it here with all dat other stuff. Them worms then eat it all up and den dey poop too. It becomes that dark ol dirt you see right there. Your grandma take all that dirt and spread it around all her vegetables. It makes em grown big and strong."
"Virge, that still sounds nasty."
"Rabbit - I gotta ask you. Did your grandma make you one of her mater sandwiches for lunch, one of those good un's on loaf bread, slobbered up with mayonnaise?"
"Yea she did - how did you know?"
He chuckled as he explained, "Rabbit, I ain't no mind reader. It's all over your shirt! What I knows though is that through that mater and down through dat dirt, through dem worms, and through all that other stuff, you done et some of that cow poop!" I laughed too. I wasn't all that clear on the process, but somehow, hearing it from Virge made sense.
We went down to our favorite fishing hole; me sitting at my favorite place, Virge at his. I glanced over from time to time, and Virge was probably catching five fish to my one. I ran out of worms, so went over to where Virge was sitting. "Hey Virge, I need some worms. The fish ate all mine up."
He smiled as he said, "You ain't fishin Rabbit, you just feedin. You put a great big ol wad of worm on your hook. When de fish see all dat, they probably laffin at you. Look here. I watched as Virge split off about one third of a worm. He then threaded it on the hook to where it just covered the barb. "This way, when dat ol fish smell dis worm and take a bite, he get the hook too. Rabbit, fishin is a lot like livin. You shouldn't use mor'n you need."
I saw Virge on and off for four more years, especially every summer. My dad was stationed in Eufaula, Alabama, when we got the call that Virge had died. We went to the funeral of course. School was in session, so my Mom and brothers didn't come. Dad took me. He and I and my Grandpa and Grandma went. After the service, I was standing around a picnic table set up outside. I was picking out all of the fried chicken wings. I looked up as Virge's niece Carrie, walked over. I greeted her with a big old smile, which she returned. I'm glad she didn't really know why I was smiling. Carrie had an unusual build. She was mostly normal up top, but below the waist, she had the biggest butt I'd ever seen. Virge used to call her Sugar Butts. I took the low risk greeting, "Hey Ms. Carrie."
"Hey - Rabbit. I sure am glad that you and your folks could come. Virge would have liked that. I got sumpin for you." She handed me a small package wrapped in a red bandana. Inside, a small square box and a note. The note was hand written. I heard during the service that Virge learned to read and write when he was 50 years old. I thought everybody could, but I guess not.
In large script was this note, "Hey Rabbit - I guess you know I'm dead. It's time for dem worms to get to ol Virge. Don't you worry though, I'll be a long way from dem tomato plants. HA HA! I want you to do 2 things for me. First I want you to take care of my Barlow knife. It's in the small box. Second, I want you to think about ol Virge with a smile on your face. We had us some good times."
There isn't time in this story to tell all, but Virge taught me many, many things, only one of which was the importance of telling the truth. I lost your knife Virge, probably within five days. I do think about you though and with a big old smile. As I write this, that's not a tear going down my cheek. I've just got allergies.
Story of the Month contest entry
Sometimes, you can view your life as a bookshelf. Depending on where you are, that shelf might be full, or just starting. In my case, it is pretty full, darn near overflowing. It's full of kid's stories, drama, comedy, novels and books of sheer poetry. To keep things tidy, it helps to have bookends. I have one on the left hand side, but the right hand side is still open; hopefully, more pages to be written and books to add.
My bookend on the left is an old black man named Virgil Gates. Part of this is purely chronological. Virgil came into my life in 1955, when I was just 6 years old. There are things to the left of that bookend, but they are mostly scattered pages and fragments of stories.
I'll never forget when I first met Virgil. My father had just finished a tour of duty in Japan and we had all summer to wait between assignments, at the family place in West Central Georgia. It was late June and hot. I was looking up the dirt road and had to rub my eyes. There appeared to be two people walking right on top of each other on what looked like water. The air around this apparition was shimmering and wavy. I know now that it was a simple mirage created by mid-day heat on the road bed. For a six year old boy, it just looked strange.
"Grandma - something strange is a walkin down the road."
She put her ice tea down, smoothed her summer frock, and with her hand shielding her eyes took a look. "Billy, that ain't nothin strange, that's just old Virge come down to help your Grandpa put the mules in the harness. They're going to plow some of the new ground up."
I looked again. The heat shimmer disappeared as he got closer, and I could tell that it was an old black man. He was not a large man, actually quite slim. There were crinkles around his large expressive eyes. His teeth, when smiling, looked like the keys on my grandma's piano. He was dressed in the same fashion as I always saw him from that day on. He had on a pair of blue denim overalls, a long sleeve blue and white striped cotton shirt, a railroad engineer's cap and brogans on his feet. Virge walked in a way I'd never seen. It's like he would plant one foot in front of himself and then glide forward the rest of his body to catch up with that foot. My grandma saw me once trying to copy that walk. She just laughed, saying, "You ain't got it in you to walk like that."
Virgil tipped his hat to my grandma as he said, "Hey Ms. Louise. I'm here to help Mr. Horace with dem mules. Who dat little tow head boy on da rocker?"
"Hey Virgil - thanks for coming. That there's Mr. Jack's middle boy, Billy. His brothers Johnny and Bobby are around some where. Billy - take Virgil around back. Your grandpa is waiting on him."
For the first and last time, Virgil addressed me in the way that was so common in the South those days. "Mr. Billy - how old you be?"
I had pretty clear directions on how to address older people, so I responded, "Mr. Gates, I'm six. You don't have to call me Mr., just Billy. That's what everybody calls me." He continued the Mr. and Ms. connection with all my family; even my brothers were Mr. Johnny and Mr. Bobby. Me though, he treated special. He called me Rabbit.
He also asked me not to call him Mr. "You do dat, and I be lookin aroun to see who you talkin to."
My grandma once asked Virgil why he called me Rabbit. "Cuz he's like the rabbit. He sits still and quiet, but all da time, he's pointin dem ears and movin dem eyes all around. He takin it all in. Ain't nobody gonna get one by de rabbit!" For whatever reason, it stuck. Everybody started calling me Rabbit. I didn't mind.
My brother John and I fought all the time, and my brother Bob was just a baby. By default, Virgil became my best friend. I asked my father once how old Virgil was. His answer said it all. "I'm not sure, but Virgil was an old man when I was your age." I later found out that Virgil was 92.
The next summer, when I was seven years old, Virge took me fishing. We went to gather worms before going. Virge told me we would go to the best place on Earth to get those worms. We walked to the edge of grandma's garden where she kept her compost pile. Virge handed me the shovel. "Rabbit - you need to brush that stuff off''n de top and that's where we find de worms."
Squinting up my eyes, I told Virge, "That ain't no stuff, that's cow poop. That stuff is nasty."
"Now Rabbit, ain't nothin God made nasty! Let me show you sumpin." Virge moved back the very top surface, which was a lot of manure, but also kitchen scraps, leaves and other forms of compost. As he brushed back the surface, it was like magic. Worms were going everywhere. We grabbed a couple of handfuls and split them up between two tin cans. "Rabbit - here's de thing. God is pretty smart. Them cows poop and your grandma throws it here with all dat other stuff. Them worms then eat it all up and den dey poop too. It becomes that dark ol dirt you see right there. Your grandma take all that dirt and spread it around all her vegetables. It makes em grown big and strong."
"Virge, that still sounds nasty."
"Rabbit - I gotta ask you. Did your grandma make you one of her mater sandwiches for lunch, one of those good un's on loaf bread, slobbered up with mayonnaise?"
"Yea she did - how did you know?"
He chuckled as he explained, "Rabbit, I ain't no mind reader. It's all over your shirt! What I knows though is that through that mater and down through dat dirt, through dem worms, and through all that other stuff, you done et some of that cow poop!" I laughed too. I wasn't all that clear on the process, but somehow, hearing it from Virge made sense.
We went down to our favorite fishing hole; me sitting at my favorite place, Virge at his. I glanced over from time to time, and Virge was probably catching five fish to my one. I ran out of worms, so went over to where Virge was sitting. "Hey Virge, I need some worms. The fish ate all mine up."
He smiled as he said, "You ain't fishin Rabbit, you just feedin. You put a great big ol wad of worm on your hook. When de fish see all dat, they probably laffin at you. Look here. I watched as Virge split off about one third of a worm. He then threaded it on the hook to where it just covered the barb. "This way, when dat ol fish smell dis worm and take a bite, he get the hook too. Rabbit, fishin is a lot like livin. You shouldn't use mor'n you need."
I saw Virge on and off for four more years, especially every summer. My dad was stationed in Eufaula, Alabama, when we got the call that Virge had died. We went to the funeral of course. School was in session, so my Mom and brothers didn't come. Dad took me. He and I and my Grandpa and Grandma went. After the service, I was standing around a picnic table set up outside. I was picking out all of the fried chicken wings. I looked up as Virge's niece Carrie, walked over. I greeted her with a big old smile, which she returned. I'm glad she didn't really know why I was smiling. Carrie had an unusual build. She was mostly normal up top, but below the waist, she had the biggest butt I'd ever seen. Virge used to call her Sugar Butts. I took the low risk greeting, "Hey Ms. Carrie."
"Hey - Rabbit. I sure am glad that you and your folks could come. Virge would have liked that. I got sumpin for you." She handed me a small package wrapped in a red bandana. Inside, a small square box and a note. The note was hand written. I heard during the service that Virge learned to read and write when he was 50 years old. I thought everybody could, but I guess not.
In large script was this note, "Hey Rabbit - I guess you know I'm dead. It's time for dem worms to get to ol Virge. Don't you worry though, I'll be a long way from dem tomato plants. HA HA! I want you to do 2 things for me. First I want you to take care of my Barlow knife. It's in the small box. Second, I want you to think about ol Virge with a smile on your face. We had us some good times."
There isn't time in this story to tell all, but Virge taught me many, many things, only one of which was the importance of telling the truth. I lost your knife Virge, probably within five days. I do think about you though and with a big old smile. As I write this, that's not a tear going down my cheek. I've just got allergies.
My bookend on the left is an old black man named Virgil Gates. Part of this is purely chronological. Virgil came into my life in 1955, when I was just 6 years old. There are things to the left of that bookend, but they are mostly scattered pages and fragments of stories.
I'll never forget when I first met Virgil. My father had just finished a tour of duty in Japan and we had all summer to wait between assignments, at the family place in West Central Georgia. It was late June and hot. I was looking up the dirt road and had to rub my eyes. There appeared to be two people walking right on top of each other on what looked like water. The air around this apparition was shimmering and wavy. I know now that it was a simple mirage created by mid-day heat on the road bed. For a six year old boy, it just looked strange.
"Grandma - something strange is a walkin down the road."
She put her ice tea down, smoothed her summer frock, and with her hand shielding her eyes took a look. "Billy, that ain't nothin strange, that's just old Virge come down to help your Grandpa put the mules in the harness. They're going to plow some of the new ground up."
I looked again. The heat shimmer disappeared as he got closer, and I could tell that it was an old black man. He was not a large man, actually quite slim. There were crinkles around his large expressive eyes. His teeth, when smiling, looked like the keys on my grandma's piano. He was dressed in the same fashion as I always saw him from that day on. He had on a pair of blue denim overalls, a long sleeve blue and white striped cotton shirt, a railroad engineer's cap and brogans on his feet. Virge walked in a way I'd never seen. It's like he would plant one foot in front of himself and then glide forward the rest of his body to catch up with that foot. My grandma saw me once trying to copy that walk. She just laughed, saying, "You ain't got it in you to walk like that."
Virgil tipped his hat to my grandma as he said, "Hey Ms. Louise. I'm here to help Mr. Horace with dem mules. Who dat little tow head boy on da rocker?"
"Hey Virgil - thanks for coming. That there's Mr. Jack's middle boy, Billy. His brothers Johnny and Bobby are around some where. Billy - take Virgil around back. Your grandpa is waiting on him."
For the first and last time, Virgil addressed me in the way that was so common in the South those days. "Mr. Billy - how old you be?"
I had pretty clear directions on how to address older people, so I responded, "Mr. Gates, I'm six. You don't have to call me Mr., just Billy. That's what everybody calls me." He continued the Mr. and Ms. connection with all my family; even my brothers were Mr. Johnny and Mr. Bobby. Me though, he treated special. He called me Rabbit.
He also asked me not to call him Mr. "You do dat, and I be lookin aroun to see who you talkin to."
My grandma once asked Virgil why he called me Rabbit. "Cuz he's like the rabbit. He sits still and quiet, but all da time, he's pointin dem ears and movin dem eyes all around. He takin it all in. Ain't nobody gonna get one by de rabbit!" For whatever reason, it stuck. Everybody started calling me Rabbit. I didn't mind.
My brother John and I fought all the time, and my brother Bob was just a baby. By default, Virgil became my best friend. I asked my father once how old Virgil was. His answer said it all. "I'm not sure, but Virgil was an old man when I was your age." I later found out that Virgil was 92.
The next summer, when I was seven years old, Virge took me fishing. We went to gather worms before going. Virge told me we would go to the best place on Earth to get those worms. We walked to the edge of grandma's garden where she kept her compost pile. Virge handed me the shovel. "Rabbit - you need to brush that stuff off''n de top and that's where we find de worms."
Squinting up my eyes, I told Virge, "That ain't no stuff, that's cow poop. That stuff is nasty."
"Now Rabbit, ain't nothin God made nasty! Let me show you sumpin." Virge moved back the very top surface, which was a lot of manure, but also kitchen scraps, leaves and other forms of compost. As he brushed back the surface, it was like magic. Worms were going everywhere. We grabbed a couple of handfuls and split them up between two tin cans. "Rabbit - here's de thing. God is pretty smart. Them cows poop and your grandma throws it here with all dat other stuff. Them worms then eat it all up and den dey poop too. It becomes that dark ol dirt you see right there. Your grandma take all that dirt and spread it around all her vegetables. It makes em grown big and strong."
"Virge, that still sounds nasty."
"Rabbit - I gotta ask you. Did your grandma make you one of her mater sandwiches for lunch, one of those good un's on loaf bread, slobbered up with mayonnaise?"
"Yea she did - how did you know?"
He chuckled as he explained, "Rabbit, I ain't no mind reader. It's all over your shirt! What I knows though is that through that mater and down through dat dirt, through dem worms, and through all that other stuff, you done et some of that cow poop!" I laughed too. I wasn't all that clear on the process, but somehow, hearing it from Virge made sense.
We went down to our favorite fishing hole; me sitting at my favorite place, Virge at his. I glanced over from time to time, and Virge was probably catching five fish to my one. I ran out of worms, so went over to where Virge was sitting. "Hey Virge, I need some worms. The fish ate all mine up."
He smiled as he said, "You ain't fishin Rabbit, you just feedin. You put a great big ol wad of worm on your hook. When de fish see all dat, they probably laffin at you. Look here. I watched as Virge split off about one third of a worm. He then threaded it on the hook to where it just covered the barb. "This way, when dat ol fish smell dis worm and take a bite, he get the hook too. Rabbit, fishin is a lot like livin. You shouldn't use mor'n you need."
I saw Virge on and off for four more years, especially every summer. My dad was stationed in Eufaula, Alabama, when we got the call that Virge had died. We went to the funeral of course. School was in session, so my Mom and brothers didn't come. Dad took me. He and I and my Grandpa and Grandma went. After the service, I was standing around a picnic table set up outside. I was picking out all of the fried chicken wings. I looked up as Virge's niece Carrie, walked over. I greeted her with a big old smile, which she returned. I'm glad she didn't really know why I was smiling. Carrie had an unusual build. She was mostly normal up top, but below the waist, she had the biggest butt I'd ever seen. Virge used to call her Sugar Butts. I took the low risk greeting, "Hey Ms. Carrie."
"Hey - Rabbit. I sure am glad that you and your folks could come. Virge would have liked that. I got sumpin for you." She handed me a small package wrapped in a red bandana. Inside, a small square box and a note. The note was hand written. I heard during the service that Virge learned to read and write when he was 50 years old. I thought everybody could, but I guess not.
In large script was this note, "Hey Rabbit - I guess you know I'm dead. It's time for dem worms to get to ol Virge. Don't you worry though, I'll be a long way from dem tomato plants. HA HA! I want you to do 2 things for me. First I want you to take care of my Barlow knife. It's in the small box. Second, I want you to think about ol Virge with a smile on your face. We had us some good times."
There isn't time in this story to tell all, but Virge taught me many, many things, only one of which was the importance of telling the truth. I lost your knife Virge, probably within five days. I do think about you though and with a big old smile. As I write this, that's not a tear going down my cheek. I've just got allergies.
 Recognized |
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If you feel compelled to corect all of the grammar, you are going to have a field day. I'm trying to reflect the pattern of speech of the South. If you live here, you know most of us drop trailing "g's" and sometimes have language allof our own. I remember the first time I told my Mother-In-Law that I was "fixin" to go to the store, she thought I was ignorant and her daughter really screwed up! If you see errors or spags outside of the dialect, please let me know!
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