Bobby and I have been playing on the old railroad bridge for longer than I can remember. The railroad quit using the bridge many years before I was born. There's still some gray paint on it, but it's mostly rusted now. On the top support beam is the year “1903” in a brass plaque that's an ugly green now. I bet it was shining when they put it on there. My Dad, who left us a long time ago, said that the bridge was the only way for trains to cross the Obion River for years. Until they built that six-track bridge about twenty miles away. I heard it's been over thirty years since a train went down these tracks.

Slowly, I'm walking along the tracks to my sitting spot. It's right in the middle of the bridge. There's a couple of cross-ties you have to watch out for, you might step through. I jump up on the tracks to avoid them. I've got a pocket full of rocks to throw in the river. Don't know why I like to throw rocks in the river, I guess it helps me think?

I try to not think about what happened between Mom and Dad, but I always do. The thing that bothers me is, why did Dad leave us for a whiskey bottle? He ended up killing himself in a car crash, drunker than ever. It was eight years ago when I was six. I still remember the day, though. The Sheriff came to our house to tell Mama. She just shook her head then thanked him for coming by. Just like she expected it, she knew it was just a matter of time. I heard her tell the Sheriff, “I'm glad he didn't hit anybody and take them with him.”

Lying in my bed that night, I could hear Mom crying. I got a lot older that day.

I've sat in this spot on the bridge for so long my butt has worn out a groove that fits me perfectly. I empty my pocket full of rocks out on a cross-tie, then slowly pick one up. A smooth brown rock with a jagged black line running through it. It's almost too pretty to throw in the river, but I reach back then let it fly. I watch the spinning rock, arc it's way towards the river. The rock hits a log floating by, then bounces up on the bank.

“I'll get to throw that one, again.” For a change, I let a smile creep across my face.

The sound of birds is always in the air along the river. Mostly Red-winged Blackbirds, they make their nest in the Cattails growing on the sunny part of the bank. I love their songs. Now, I hear Bobby whistling while he walks down the tracks, but he still has ways to go. I wonder what song he's whistling this week. Last week it was, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog.” He's still too far away to tell.

I let another rock fly, it lands in the middle of the river. A catfish swirls away from the wake. A big one, it seems. Bobby is closer now. It's “Rockin' Robin” this week, cool song. He must have heard it on the radio before he left home.

I see the top of Bobby's head coming up the slight hill before the bridge. I don't think a comb has touched his blond hair since school let out for summer. It's sticking up, everywhere. He dressed in his usual overalls and a tee shirt. Bobby is still whistling when he stops on the bridge then sits down beside me. He dumps his pocket full of rocks on a cross-tie then joins me in throwing them. His rocks always go farther than mine, stronger arm.

“Why ain't you home, Jimmy. You should be eating birthday cake and getting loads of presents?” Bobby smiles at me with those big blue eyes of his shining. He has the funniest smile and his voice is cracking a little, puberty.

“Ah, you know. Mama is still sleeping it off from working at the bar last night. I woke up when she stumbled in the door at two in the morning. I'll be lucky if she remembers to make supper before going to work at five. Presents, come on.” I shake my head and laugh. “Ain't no way!”

“You could home with me in a little while. Mom put a beef roast in the Crockpot this morning. She'll add the taters in about an hour, won't be long then. If we ask her nice, she'll bake you a cake.” Bobby's eyes are pleading with me. “I know she has a chocolate cake and frosting in the pantry.”

What a great friend Bobby is, I can't help but smile at him. “Nah, I think I'll sit here an' chunk rocks until something happens on this hot, July day. Besides, your Mom has enough people to cook for without feeding me.” I reach back to Mississippi then let a rock fly. It lands on the left bank then kicks up into the edge of the woods.

A deep voice hollers from the woods. “You boys watch where you throwing them rocks!”

Stunned, Bobby looks at me then asks. “Who the crap is that?”

I smile at Bobby then say. “There's only one way to find out.”

We both jump up then head to a path that leads to a good fishing spot further down the river. The sun fades away when we step into the woods. Now, all you can hear the whine of mosquitoes instead of the birds. Slowly, we follow the path next to the river then stop at the clearing. There's a large black man leaning up against Cypress tree with his baseball hat pulled over his eyes. A guitar, backpack, and a stack of books are on the ground around him. Bobby and I are kneeling behind a huge Oak tree, looking around both sides.

The large man seems to be sleeping until we hear him say. “You two boys might as well come all the way. You came this far.” He raises his hat then looks right at us.

Bobby and I pull back behind the tree, shrug our shoulders then step out. The man picks up a book then begins to read out loud.

“With his ebony hands

on each ivory key

He made the poor piano

moan with melody

Oh, Blues!”

“That's Langston Hughes. A black poet that I'm sure you two white boys ain't never heard of.” He reaches out his hand to shake then says, “My name is Half Dollar Blues.”

“Bobby Williams, sir. A pleasure to meet you.” Smiling, Bobby reaches for then shakes his hand.

“You're the first white person I ever heard say that.” He smiles big then reaches for my hand.

“Jimmy Owenby, sir. What was that you were reading, Mr. Blues?” I'm fascinated with those words. He's right, never heard that before and I want to hear more. It's like a puzzle piece was finally put in the right spot and now some of the picture comes into view.

“Well, well. I think we have someone who desires enlightenment. I like you, Mr. Owenby, I can see it in your eyes. You've been through some stuff. Life has kicked you around pretty hard and you'd like some answers. Well, I ain't got them. They live inside you, got to read the right things to get them out.” His smile is big and bright. His dark brown eyes sparkle in the sun filtering through the Cypress trees.

Bobby and I are standing there with our jaws dropped. We slowly sit down on the bank in front of him.

“You, Mr. Williams, are a character and live in a big family. I'd say four or five brothers and sisters along with a mother and father, that love you deeply! You a lucky man, Mr. Williams. Don't ever forget that!” Mr. Blues leans back against the tree. “So, you want to learn about Poetry and the Blues. They go hand in hand, walking together through this sorrow-filled world. The Blues is the moaning of the soul and Poetry releases the pain you feel deep in your gut.”

He's the most amazing man I've ever met. There are so many questions I want to ask him. “How did you know that I've been deeply hurt?”

“Son, I can see it in your eyes. The eyes are the gateway to your soul. When you're a black man in the South, you learn to read peoples eyes. Your life may depend on it.” Mr. Blues quietly laughs.

Bobby speaks up, “What are you doing out here in this bottom and not back in town?”

“Well, I was singing the Blues at a bar I shouldn't have been at, but I was talked into it. Didn't know it was all white. All of a sudden a bunch of men dressed in white robes came busting in the door. It was all I could do to get away. I lost them when I ducked into these woods then doubled back.” He wipes the sweat from his face.

“This is 1978, you mean to tell me the KKK is around here?” I can't believe what he's saying.

“Son, they everywhere. The man who bags your groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. The guy who pumps your gas at the Citgo. Maybe even your mailman. They don't live in your world, but they the devil in mine. It ain't the first time I've been chased around by them.” He looks down at his books for a second then picks one up. “Here you go, Mr. Owenby. I've been looking for a good home for this book. I think you'll cherish it like I do. Your answers are in there, somewhere. Please take it.”

I take the book then slowly read the title. “The Complete Works Of Langston Hughes. I can't take this, Mr. Blues.”

“Please do, Jimmy. It will less for me to carry and I have to travel light, sometimes. Besides, it's your birthday.”

He smiles when I put it under my arm.

“Now, you boys need to get. It wouldn't be good for your families if they saw you with me. They'd haunt you the rest of your lives.” He smiles at both of us. “Thank you boys, for coming by for a visit. It was quite a pleasure to meet two fine young men like you.”

Walking up the path, Bobby and I look back. Half Dollar Blues is waving and smiling big.

The next day, I went back to the clearing by the river. Half Dollar Blues was long gone. There wasn't a trace that he was ever there, but I hold his book in my hand.

I walk back up to my spot on the bridge then sit down. Instead of throwing rocks, I opened the book then found the poem he started to read:

The Weary Blues

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune

rocking back and forth to a mellow croon.

I heard a Negro play.

Down on Lennox Avenue

He did a lazy sway...

He did a lazy sway...

To the tune o' those weary blues.

I couldn't help but smile and think of Half Dollar Blues. “He was right, the answers are inside me."