Ashes to Ashes – Dust to Dust Part 2

A fire, a funeral, an’ a place to call home.

Audio narration on YouTube coming soon.

Two months had passed since Granny had the flu, an’ this year's typical spring trip to Iowa would have to wait. Mama’s headaches were comin’ more often an’ here she was with another one. Not feelin’ like herself a’tall. Somethin’ wasn’t right.

In just a few weeks, it would all make sense when she discovered she was expecting a baby, something she never anticipated would happen to her again.

Instead of goin’ to town with Daddy that mornin’ like she’d planned, Mama decided she’d send the kids off to school an’ crawl back into bed. Maybe she could sleep off the pain.

She an’ Daddy went to town once a month to buy supplies. But from the moment she woke up, Mama knew she would spend the day tryin’ to rid herself of the pain behind her eyes an’ in the back of her neck. Then thirty minutes later, as she stood in the kitchen wonderin’ what to do next, Mama realized the pain in her head was gone.

When she told me that story years later, Mama still marveled at what happened that mornin’. Her headaches never just went away, not without hours of quiet rest in a dark room. This was the one an’ only time, in a lifetime full of migraines, when that would not be true. So, she packed a picnic lunch for her an’ Daddy an’ the Widow Reed who they planned to visit on the way home. They wouldn’t return until after the kids got home from school that afternoon.

When they left, they shut the door behind ‘em without lockin’ it. There was no need. This was a safe place to live. Mama left a note for Bunnie, who was 11 years old. She’d make sure ever’body got started on their chores after school so things would be ready for the monthly unloadin’ of supplies when Mama an’ Daddy returned. Just another average day on the Phillips’ farm in Springdale, or so it seemed.

An hour after the house was left empty, the mailman made his daily delivery. As he slowed down in front of the house, he never looked up to see the thin trail of smoke just beginnin’ to waft out of the basement window on the east side of the porch.

Clyde had been deliverin’ the mail since his Daddy retired from the job twenty years earlier an’ between the two of ‘em, deliveries had been arrivin’ on time for nearly sixty-five years. Clyde used to proudly declare that he an’ his daddy had been provin’ the postal creed right as long as most of the folks in Springdale had been livin’ there. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

No doubt, ever’one in town knew Clyde would fulfill his appointed rounds an’ deliver the mail by days end. But they also knew to watch out for him as he delivered it. He was proud of the work he did, but his first love, above all others, was preachin’. He did that twice ever’ Sunday, mornin’ an’ evenin’, at Springdale Baptist Church where my family attended.

Usin’ a old horses' bridle, Clyde rigged his open Bible to the steerin’ wheel of his truck so he could read as he drove his route. Now, to say Clyde drove that truck is bein’ fairly generous. He mostly just kept the truck outta the ditch while God’s word stayed front an’ center. Keepin’ his eyes on the road was secondary.

When Clyde put two letters addressed to my Mama in the mailbox at 10:30 that mornin’, he saw the smoke in his peripheral vision, but it wouldn’t register as a cohesive thought for another hour. It was just before lunchtime, as Clyde was reachin’ for his thermos, that the smoke he’d seen earlier clicked. Slammin’ the brakes, he looked up from his Bible an’ said out loud to the empty truck, “My God, the Phillips’ farm is on fire!”

By this time, his route had taken him back to town, so Clyde found the nearest phone an’ told Betty, the operator who managed the local party line, to ring the sheriff’s office. “Tell him the Phillips’ farm is on fire! Tell ever’body!” Then without lookin’ at his bible even once, Clyde drove through town honkin’ his horn shoutin’, “Fire at the Phillips’ farm! Fire at the Phillips’ farm!”

If Clyde had sounded his alarm a few minutes earlier, Mama an’ Daddy woulda heard the noise an’ turned back home with most of the town. But they were just makin’ the turn down Widow Reed’s Lane to deliver her groceries. The lane, tucked off the main road by more’n a quarter mile, was too far for Clyde’s commotion to ever reach their ears. The only sound was the crunch of gravel under their tires.

Mrs. Reed attended church with my family an’ her rheumatism kept her home bound most days. Her husband had died years ago an’ the kids had all moved away. That was unusual for this part of the country. Most ever’body had somebody. Widow Reed was the exception that proved the rule for just how important it was to have good friends.

Over the years, the men at the church had taken on the maintenance of her farmhouse an’ the women had made it their happy duty to do her shoppin’ each month when her social security check arrived. This time, it was Mama’s turn.

After makin’ the delivery they unpacked their picnic lunch an’ spread it out on Mrs. Reed’s antique dinin’ room table. They were a trio of thankful hearts sittin’ around a table of abundance, delightin’ themselves on cold fried chicken an’ peach cobbler. Lunch always tasted better when Mama was helpin’ somebody. Today it tasted especially good.

Right about that same time, neighbors an’ folks from town were arriving at the scene of the fire. It was an impressive sight. The large three story, 150-year-old farmhouse was nearly fully engulfed. Flames danced against a sky of pure blue, cotton candy clouds floatin’ by on a perfect spring day.

Those first to arrive had attempted to save a few things by takin’ ‘em out of the house an’ into the barn. It was a good fifty yards away. A safe distance from the fire. But no one noticed the clothesline strung from the barn to the back porch. The flames climbed that rope like a ladder, leapin’ into the barn an’ consumin’ ever’thing inside before anyone could stop it.

Mama said later, when they realized what had happened, she wanted to cry, but she decided to laugh instead. By then, she’d already shed most of her tears anyway.

It took no time for word to reach the school. My oldest sister, thinkin’ her Mama was sleepin’ inside that burnin’ house, was the first one out the door. Bunnie ran all the way home, arrivin’ just in time to see the roof fall into the second story, right where Mama’s bed would be. Neighbors had to sit on her to keep her from runnin’ inside. She nearly lost her mind thinkin’ she was watchin’ Mama burn to death. A terrible sound, like that of a dyin’ animal rose up as Bunnie, Leland, Bonnie an’ Evelyn began to wail for what they thought they were losin’. Not the house. They were losin’ Mama.

That’s when Bunnie fainted.

Just before the world went dark, Bunnie had looked up to see another vehicle drivin’ down the lane from the main road to the house. Mama was sittin’ next to Daddy in the front seat of their car.

The relief she felt hit her like a thunderclap as she swung between joyful disbelief an’ panic-stricken horror. Mama’s alive?! Mama’s al--? MAMA’S ALIVE!!! That’s when ever’thing went dark.

When she woke up, Mama was there, wipin’ her forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m here, Bunnie. We’re all here. It’s all right now, sweetheart.” She was always so kind at times like this.

I never heard this story from Bunnie herself. Only from my sister, Bonnie, an’ from Mama, an’ my Granny. I’m pretty sure Bunnie never talked ‘bout it again. As far as I know, neither did Daddy.

We lost ever’thing. The house an’ ever’thing in it lay in a smolderin’, blackened ash heap. They never figured out how the fire started. What was the use? The insurance paid, neighbors gave clothes, furniture, food, toys an’ even tools to help Daddy replace what had burned up in the barn. The greatest loss, however, was irreplaceable.

A cheeky little parakeet, a bird by the name of Bucky, had been a member of the family since my parents moved to Arkansas three years earlier. Bucky loved the freedom of that high ceilin’ house an’ rarely spent time in his cage, although he was happy to oblige when told to go there. He never tried to escape as he flew from room to room. More’n anything he just wanted to be with my sister, Bonnie. She had a way with animals. She taught him to talk an’ he could even do tricks. They didn’t have a television, but who needed one with Bucky around?

The mornin’ of the fire, for the first time ever, he would not go into his cage. Flyin’ high an’ low from one room to the next he refused to cooperate. Bucky always did what Bonnie told him to do, but that day Daddy had to catch that little bird. Bucky rebuked him with loud chides as Daddy locked the cage door with him inside. As Mama an’ Daddy left the house he was still scoldin’ ‘em. Whenever Mama told me this part of the story her eyes welled up with tears. She was nearly 90 the last time she wept over that little bird.

Bucky knew somethin’ was wrong that day before anybody else did, dartin’ from room to room, his usual playful flutters takin’ on a frantic edge. When it was all over, they looked through the ashes an’ found what was left of his cage—an’ what was left of Bucky.

A funeral was planned immediately. Friends of all the kids an’ even some adults came by to pay their respects. They gathered ‘round the small, makeshift grave in the backyard, heads bowed. Even Daddy, who rarely showed his feelings, stood silent for a long while. A small bouquet of wildflowers sat next to the little wooden cross the kids made, tears streamin’ down their faces.”

This kind of behavior was very unusual for a farmer an’ his family. Animals died an’ you went on with life with very little time to grieve or say good-bye. But this was different. First, because Bucky was different, a member of the family, like one of the kids. Second, because he had tried so hard to warn of the danger to come. He might have found a way to escape an’ come home again if he hadn’t been locked in that damn cage.

Along with her grandmother’s Ball Aqua Mason cannin’ jars, Mama lost her priceless collection of antique dolls that day. She had hundreds of those beautiful blue jars an’ nearly as many dolls. I’m sure they’d be pricey antiques today. Mama said she’d never collect anything again ‘cause losin’ somethin’ you love that much was just too hard to face. She mighta been talkin’ ‘bout her dolls, but she was still thinkin’ ‘bout Bucky.

Ever’ picture, ever’ memento, all of their heirlooms an’ treasures other folks would call junk was all gone. Nothin’ was left. But the hardest loss was that cheeky little bird. Somehow the work of puttin’ their lives back together helped ‘em deal with most of it. But the heartache of losin’ Bucky wasn’t somethin’ you could spend the day workin’ off.

Many years later, after all us kids were grown an’ gone, Mama an’ Daddy welcomed another cheeky parakeet into their home. You might think it strange, but they called him Bucky. I guess it was their way of honorin’ a very special friend who would always be part of the family. Their new Bucky wasn’t just another bird. He was a way to keep Arkansas Bucky’s memory alive, a reminder of what they’d lost an’ what they’d never forget. When he died, they both said there’d never be another.

---

They rebuilt on the same property, but the new house was nothin’ like the old one. How could it be? A two-bedroom square box with a tiny front porch became home to a family of six with one on the way. The kitchen had a gas stove an’ electric ice box, an’ the water came through a faucet now. Ever’body was happy to be alive an’ together but nothin’ was ever the same. They moved in a couple weeks before Thanksgivin’. Ten days later, I’s born.

When the fire took their home in April, it burned away the last fragments of Mama’s dreams that were left scattered on Iowa roads an’ in Kansas City hotels. But when I’s born in November, those broken pieces gathered up in her arms again, so unexpected.

That winter turned out to be nearly as challengin’ as the spring had been. So many scattered pieces, remnants of memories Daddy couldn’t shake off, along with lots of freezin’ rain an’ way too much snow. It had him yearnin’ for a warmer an’ simpler place to live. He got through it an’ was happy to welcome spring an’ summer that next year. But when the temperatures started turnin’ cold again in September, Daddy started lookin’ south. He couldn’t face another winter here an’ he already knew where he wanted to go.

He wasn’t just longin’ for warm weather, he was dreamin’ of leavin’ all those remnants behind. Arkansas had given ‘em a chance to start over, but pieces of the past have a way of showin’ up, no matter how hard you sweep. Florida might be the only place far enough to leave ‘em behind for good.

Daddy wasn’t the only one thinkin’ ‘bout movin’ on. Mama had been dreamin’ ‘bout a place she’d never been before, where it was warm an’ sunny with a Mockingbird perched on a gate. An’ unlike ever’ other dream she ever had, she always woke up happy.

Their Arkansas farmhouse felt more like home than any place she’d ever lived.  After it burned to the ground, an’ then havin’ a new baby, she hadn’t had time to consider if she wanted to stay here. She an’ Walter felt like they’s walkin’ in their sleep that whole next year.  Buildin’ a new house was what they were supposed to do, right? So, when Mama told Daddy ‘bout her dreams, wonderin’ what it all meant, he knew exactly what to do. Her dreams matched his memories of the one place he’d been truly happy.

Daddy’s love for farmin’ had been all but destroyed in the last ten years. One heartache after another was suckin’ the life right out of him. Ever’thing he had endured before he an’ my Mama met, an’ other traumas he refused to think ‘bout in the daylight, had started sneakin’ into his thoughts at night. Add the loss of the home they cherished an’ the little bird they loved, an’ the weight he carried was heavier than ever.

Stayin’ here might provide the constant work that helped him ignore what he was feelin’ in his heart from sunup to sundown, but the pain in his bones? Especially at night, when the cold crept in an’ wrapped itself ‘round him, it wasn’t just his body that hurt. That deep ache in his joints had a way of stirrin’ up old ghosts, bringin’ memories of ever’thing he’d lost right back to the surface. The pain in his body and the pain in his heart were so tangled up together he couldn’t tell where one ended an’ the other began. The solution wouldn’t be easy to find, but he could see it ever’ time he closed his eyes an’ thought about the best three years of his life.

When Walter was a Staff Sergeant at MacDill Army Airfield in Tampa, Florida, he an’ Maggie created a life they loved. Daddy served his country keepin’ the Air Corp flyin’, but he never saw combat. He knew plenty who did though. He met lots of young pilots who’d soon be flyin’ over Germany. Many of ‘em never came home. It was a desperate time of war for the nation.

For him, however, it was a joyful time of peace that he revisited more’n more these days. That’s when he learned to appreciate life an’ take opportunities when they come knockin’. Over the last few years, he’d nearly forgotten that lesson.

In September 1958, memories of those three years livin’ with hot, humid weather, fresh seafood, banana puddin’ an’ sweet iced tea, started sittin’ with him on the back porch like an old friend when he was cleanin’ up after a hard day. His time in Florida had been a dream come true; one he had never wanted to end.

Twelve hundred miles southeast of Springdale, Arkansas, on the Pinellas County peninsula, not too far from MacDill Army Airfield, was St. Petersburg, Florida. Daddy always called it St. Pete. Right about now, he wanted to start callin’ it home.

Audio narration on YouTube coming soon.