"Jacob, in the great crisis of his life, turned aside to pray. He was filled with one overmastering purpose—to seek for transformation of character."1
Billy, be quiet, I’m trying to drive,
and I can’t be bothered with your questions!”
The confining hills, the canopy of branches
overhead, and the absence of a breeze, made the valley unbearably
hot. The plastic truck seats were hot, the steering wheel nearly
melted beneath his white clenched knuckles, rivulets of perspiration
dripped from his nose, moistened his dark brown hair and glued
his shirt and pants to the seat cushion. George was miserable,
hot, irritated, grouchy, and incredibly thirsty. The last thing
he needed, just then, were a bunch of pesky questions from his
irrepressible son. Dust filled the air and blew in the windows.
Not just dust, but nostril-clogging, eye-watering, mouth-drying
dust. Nothing tasted worse than road dust to a man who desperately
desired a cool cup of water. Another sharp curve to the right.
Just as he turned, the road abruptly turned back to the left.
How he missed straight paved roads, no matter how congested they
were. Oh well, he sighed, I guess I can’t have straight roads
going over a mountain. At least they could have paved them. George
knew mountain folks made their own moonshine. Who needed moonshine!
He got drunk just going around these curves.
He spun his wheel sharply to the right,
face contorted in rage, applying the breaks in time to avoid a
head long plunge into a rock filled ravine with a rivulet of water
at its bottom.
“Daddy,” Billy demanded, “why
are those cows lying down? Are they tired? What does grass taste
like? Do cows go to school? Does chocolate milk come from brown
cows? Why is the grass always greener on the other side of the
fence? Did God invent cows?”
Large drops of sweat poured from his forehead
as George gritted his teeth, clenched his hands, and glowered
at the road, wishing a motorist would appear so he could vent
his rage at the heat and winding roads by honking and shouting
his pent up anger.
“Daddy, why do cats mew? Ada can mew
like a cat, why can’t I meow? Daddy, look, look, what’s
that thing over there? Daddy, your not looking.”
George swore under his breath. The questions
seemed to rise from a bottomless pit like a vapor of smoke on
a clear day. How does he think of so many questions, George asked
himself, I wonder if he lays awake at night dreaming them up just
to pester me?
“Daddy, I want to be a cow when I grow
up and lay around in the field all day eating grass.”
George almost laughed at the sheer nonsense
of the comment, but thought better of it, for, just then he needed
his full concentration on the unfamiliar rutted road, but it took
all of his will power not to explode in anger at his son for his
foolishness.
“They don’t have to go to school
and study math, do they, Daddy? I like story time. We get to sit
around on the floor, while Mrs. Southerly reads funny stories
about pigs and a fox and blowing down houses and all that stuff.”
“I suppose not” George muttered,
impatiently, as he wiped his forehead for the fortieth time that
forenoon.
They passed into another valley, similar
to the one they had just left, enclosed by two hills, and overhung
with trees, their leaves browned by the drought, the heat and
humidity hung heavily over the hazy hills. It had to be at least
a 120 degrees in the shade.
Eight year old Billy Ballard gazed at his
father in mild amusement. He loved to tease his Dad and watch
his face redden in anger, then dart away before the inevitable
explosion. It was even more fun then pulling Ada’s hair and
listening to her squeal of rage. But today his father’s face
was red all the time. Checkered shirt open at the throat, left
arm gingerly resting on the hot door, elbow protruding into the
scorching sun, his father’s face was expressive of irritation,
anxiety, and something else Billy couldn't read. Contemplating
his father’s form, a fresh burst of curiosity bubbled fourth
from his fertile brain. Smirking over his father’s unwilling
self-control, Billy wondered how long he could maintain his self
composure before swearing at him as he did a dozen times a day.
George ran a hand through his close cropped,
dark brown hair, scattering drops of perspiration as a dog scatters
water off his coat. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his large,
rugged, sun tanned face, paused, for a moment, at the end of his
nose, then slid off into his mustache. Clear, piercing brown eyes,
intently swept the road, while his firm, well formed hands, glistening
with drops of sweat, gripped the steering wheel in concentration.
Twisting in his seat, Billy unfastened the
seat belt the better to gaze at his father. He liked his face,
so expressive of the man's inner thoughts. Not like those stony
faces of other men that revealed nothing, it crinkled with laughter,
wrinkled in disgust, tightened in anger, twitched with suppressed
amusement, or furrowed in concentration. He had an intuitive ability
to read the expressions and body language of everyone he meat.
He knew their thoughts, understood their motives, perceived their
feelings, and, on rare, occasions, he would use his talent for
benevolent purposes but more frequently he delighted in bedeviling
his Dad.
Darting a quick sideways look, Billy mischievously
inquired, “Mrs. Southerly says when I grow up, Ill have to
add and subtract large numbers. Daddy, I don’t like large
numbers, and I don’t want to grow...”
George grimaced. Why had he allowed his
wife to talk him into bringing his son along? Be good for him
to see the mountains, Grace assured him. George snorted in disgust,
good for who? Wasn’t it bad enough that he had to pick up
a, he caught himself before swearing, piano from her grandmother
who lived in these awful hills, or mountains, he corrected himself.
He had never visited Grandma Baxter and wondered if he would ever
find the place before he dropped of heat exhaustion or died of
senseless babble?
“I’m a city boy,” he muttered
between clenched teeth, “born and bread among the sights
and sounds of urban life.” He was intensely uncomfortable
in these surroundings, preferring the familiar regularity of well
maintained streets and the predictability of city life. Here,
among these narrow, rutted, winding roads, he missed the reliability
of street signs, of shops and stores, and the luxury of being
able to see where you were going, instead of having ones view
restricted by the mountains to either side, the low hanging trees
overhead, and the incessant curves. From moment to moment, he
fumed, he never knew which way the road would turn, disoriented,
not badly, he thought, but he longed, just once, to be able to
straighten out these awful roads and find a right angle intersection.
The country, he had to admit, was pretty,
or rather, he corrected himself, had been pretty at some point
before the drought. The lush green foliage, which normally covered
the foothills of the Appalachian mountains, was now an ugly brown,
while here and there, a tree, perhaps with deeper roots then most,
had found some lingering source of moisture, and, drawing upon
this last reservoir of nourishment, amidst a parched desert of
former glory, proudly displayed a coat of green, mottled with
shades of amber, yellow, or brown, a token of the desperate struggle
all nature was waging for survival.
As he contemplated the former beauty of
the region, George, lost in thought, missed the expression on
his son’s face, a mixture of compassion, sympathy, and understanding.
He swore inaudibly at his over active conscience. It was bothering
him lately. Memories he preferred to forget were rising to the
surface to bedevil his thoughts. Momentarily loosing sight of
the road, which was a dangerous thing to do in the mountains,
he thought of LuCinda, of Sally, and of Grace. He visualized the
three women in his life, and how he had wounded each of them.
Try as he might, the door, of his heart, refused to close. Their
condemning faces rose before him, a question mark in their eyes,
and sadness in their hearts, asking him a simple question, why?
Why indeed, he wondered. O, foolish, foolish man, he said to himself,
shaking his head in sadness!
If he had turned his head at that moment,
he would have been startled to see his son, so small and immature,
with tears in his eyes. So unexpected, so compelling, little Billy
Ballard was crying for his father. Whipping his eyes on the sleeve
of his blue sailor T-shirt, and wiggling his small legs which
did not quite reach the floor, Billy turned away. He saw the large
shoulders slump, heard the sigh, saw his hands tighten on the
wheel, watched the struggle etched on his father’s face and
wondered who would win.
Shimmering heat waves beat upon the windshield
of the white ford pickup, as George navigated the unfamiliar roads
among the low hills that gradually rose into the majestic Blue
Ridge or Appalachian mountains. The heat was, if anything, growing
worse, he thought, although he preferred using another more expressive
term.
He remembered the local meteorologist saying
something about this being the hottest summer on record with day
time temperatures reaching well beyond 118 degrees while the evenings
seldom cooled below an uncomfortable 98 degrees. In these temperatures,
the plastic seats of his truck tended to melt, while the steering
wheel was almost too hot to touch, while the metal of the truck
seemed to bake under the hot sun. Of all the times to fail, he
thought, his air conditioner wasn’t working, but then he
wasn’t the only one to suffer this fate of modern technology
gone awry.
It made him feel like swearing, blowing
off steam, as he so eloquently expressed it. But why shouldn’t
he be himself, he wondered, irked at his wife’s request to
avoid swearing. After all, a man ought to be able to be a man,
and, besides, he reasoned, Billy probably knows all the swear
words anyway.
Mopping his forehead, he glanced at the
scenery, as the road took another of its interminable turns.
Was he lost, he mumbled
He was driving on a one lane dirt road which
wound through a narrow defile between two tree covered hills.
The canopy, of formerly green trees, now dried to a nasty brown,
met over the road, almost like a cathedral, he mused, wondering
where that thought came from. Cathedral, why I haven't been near
a church in years, he chuckled to himself as his face relaxed
for a moment, and I certainly don’t intend to be near one
any time very soon, he muttered, as the road took another sharp
turn to the left. He wasn't hostile to religion, no, just indifferent,
God and church meant nothing to him. He wasn't bad, he assured
himself, quelling the voice of conscience, not bad at all, as
some people might describe immorality, he reasoned, no, he was
a highly successful entrepreneur and a respected member of the
community. He made his obligatory appearance at church for Christmas
and Easter. A sop to Grace, who was inclined to take this matter
of religion far too seriously.
This must be a pretty area in the spring,
he reflected, putting thoughts of God out of his mind in favor
of the immediate necessity. The stream, to his left, was nearly
dry, only a bare trickle among the rocks marked its former lusty
course. The same meteorologist, who had informed him, that morning,
of the heat, had also reminded his listeners that the spring rains
had failed to water this area of the country and many people,
who relied on wells, were in desperate straights as they ran dry.
Rounding another curve, he saw an old farmer
sitting in a faded blue pickup with a crinkled left fender. The
man was chewing a wad of tobacco and spit a dirty stream of brown
juice as George pulled along side and leaned out of the window.
Hay,” he yelled over the sound of the
engine, as waves of heat rolled off the hood of the truck, “how
do I get to Blue Mill Road.”
The old farmer just sat there chewing his
wad of tobacco, contemplating this imperious Yankee who had so
rudely invaded his precious hill country with his fancy vehicle
and truculent airs.
“I’m lost,” George shouted,
ignoring Billy's barely suppressed giggle. “How do I get
to Blue Mill Road.”
After a long, irritating pause, the farmer
pushed his hat back on his head, scratched his scraggly beard
and replied with mock civility that went entirely unnoticed by
George who was growing more impatient by the moment, his face,
to Billy's delight, assuming a deep beet red, as his mustache
twitched, and his eyes narrowed, giving his son every indication
of a pending explosion. Billy rubbed his hands together with glee,
as his feet twitched in anticipation.
“Yens waz rite afore yens got ta me.
Yaw’ll kin make a turn abot cher. Or yens kin git on going
on this here road. Up ta ya.” The farmer spat out a mouthful
of brown juice. “Ye was on hit several minutes t’go,”
the old man replied calmly and with deliberation. “Ye can
either turn ‘bout and go back a pace or go up yonder.”
George grunted in exasperation.
“Go up yonder,” the farmer gestured,
“till ye git to Spicewood Flats road, tak’st a left
and ye’ll find Blue Mill in ‘bout two mile.”
“Thanks,” George grumped, pressing
the accelerator as he spewed a cloud of dust over the farmer and
his truck.
“City folks,” the farmer snorted
in disgust, as he spit another stream of ‘backer juice into
the road.
Following the old man’s directions,
George found Blue Mill which took him to the top of Round Mountain
and North Carolina.
Much babbling later, from the irrepressible
Billy, who now had another feather in his quiver to tease his
Dad, they arrived at Max Patch, one of the highest points in this
part of the Appalachians.
Getting out of their truck for a rest and
a breather from the intense heat of the cab, they clambered over
the cattle guard and walked the half mile to the top of the “bald.”
Spread out below him and on all sides were
range upon range of mountains. They seemed to march in disorderly
ranks to the horizon, and, over all, hung a heavy haze or smoke.
The sun was hot, and he was thirsty.
As if echoing his own thoughts, Billy whined,
“Daddy, I’m thirsty.”
George Ballard was a large, muscular man,
in his late thirties with a beer belly, a slightly sallow complexion,
and a prematurely balding head of hair. Dressed in jeans, his
only concession to a Saturday in the mountains, and a checkered
shirt, opened at the collar to let out the heat, he did not look
happy just then.
“I think we’re out of water,”
he replied, as he shook the empty thermos bottle that his wife
had thoughtfully given them before leaving the safety and comfort
of his air conditioned house.
Billy demanded petulantly, “Can’t
we get a Pepsi at McDonalds. I’m thirsty and I want a Pepsi.”
“I’m afraid were a long way from
McDonalds,” his father almost shouted with barely concealed
exasperation. He failed to see the smirk on his sons face, for
at that moment, he noticed a Forest Service helicopter circling
over a distant mountain.
Billy was short for his age, the better
to dart among the children and pester them, his father thought.
Immature would be a better description, both physically and emotionally.
While he was eight years old, physically, his parents estimated
his emotional maturity at approximately five. He did not excel
at school, preferring to play pranks on the other children. He
relished being the center of attention, even if that attention
earned him an occasional spanking form his father, which really
didn't hurt, or a scolding from the teacher, which didn't phase
him either. Any attention was better then no attention, Billy
reasoned in his highly charged mind, although he did not express
the thought in such an adult fashion. He liked being thought of
as naughty and played the part to the hilt. He especially liked
pestering his Dad.
“I’m thirsty,” he whined
again.” This time even louder then before. “Hay, Daddy,
what’s that chopper doing? Are they smoke eaters? When I
grow up, I want to eat smoke like those fire men on TV. Does smoke
taste good? Daddy, can I fly in a police chopper and chase bad
men? Why do robbers rob banks? I’m thirsty. Lets go eat.
I’m hungry. Daddy. I’m hot and I got to go!”
George was constantly amazed at the rapidity
of his sons thoughts and how fast they could change. “How
can that boy change the subject so quickly and never loose a beat?
Even Grace can’t go on like that,” he muttered under
his breath, just audible enough for his son to hear him.
“Are they looking for a fire,”
Billy demanded, jumping up and down with excitement over this
new prospect? “Hay Daddy, lets see the fire. I want to be
a fireman when I grow up. Ada says girls can be firemen. Gee,
Daddy, why do girls want to be firemen, their girls and girls
can’t be men, that’s funny. Girls are girls, and they
can’t be boys, so how can they be firemen. Firemen wear big
red hats and shinny black boots and climb ladders and stuff like
that and girls can’t do that. Ada thinks girls can be firemen,
that’s funny, Daddy. She would look funny wearing a red hat
and big boots. She’s got small feet and the boots would fall
off and...”
He babbled on, not noticing the worried
look on his father’s face.
George headed back down the mountain to
the parking lot. Instantly Billy was there running around in circles
shrieking like a fire siren and screeching his breaks as he cornered
to quickly. Jumping up and down to imitate climbing a ladder,
he laughed aloud at the sight of Ada, in her red hat and shiny
black boots climbing though a window to spray an imaginary fire.
Shielding his eyes from the bright son,
George watched the helicopter intently, now visible from the parking
lot, as it dipped and circled just over the crest of a mountain.
However he had another picture in mind of another girl, not the
one Billy was chasing, but one who was really worthy of chasing,
George thought. Not a girl, no, not a girl at all, but very much
a woman, in every sense of the word.
George licked his lips as he thought of
his Sally wearing a red hat and shiny, black boots. Would Billy
appreciate “his” Sally, George thought? Probably not,
or, then again, maybe he would, for boys were a lot more grown-up
in these matters then he was at Billy’s age.
From this distance the helicopter and maintains
were partially obscured by smoke and he couldn’t see what
it was doing, but there must be a fire, he thought.
This morning, the radio had reported several
spot fires in the Cherokee National Forest along the North Carolina
and Tennessee border. The announcer warned residents to take precautions.
Even his wife was vaguely concerned, but he reassured her that
those fires were miles away from Grandma’s place, and, besides,
hadn’t the radio said that hundreds of fire-fighters were
on the ground battling the blazes.
Then there was that storm or hurricane lurking
off the Florida coast somewhere, but it was almost 500 miles away
and posed no immediate threat. He welcomed some relief from the
heart and drought that a thunderstorm or two might provide. It
hadn’t rained in well over five months in Northeast Tennessee.
A hurricane, diminished by its encounter with the mountains, he
mused, might be just the thing to put out these fires and water
his lawn. He would look forward to the coming rain. It couldn’t
get here too soon for his satisfaction.
Now there’s a quirk, he thought, as
Billy charged a bush, ready to spray it with his fire hose. Fire
men, now there is a feminist term. Billy is right, George sighed,
Ada, Billy’s Ada, that is, would look silly in a red hat
and shiny black boots.
“Billy,” he shouted, “get
back in the truck.”
“Ah, Dad,” his son replied disgustedly,
dropping his hose, “can’t I finish fighting this fire.”
“Later,” George growled. “Lets
get out of this place before I melt.”
Now, there’s a new idea, Billy thought
to himself, as he imagined his dad melting away. Would he drop
through the floor, like the wicked witch of the North in the Wizard
of Oz? He eagerly watched his father slowly melting away and sliding
through the floor until nothing remained save his pointed hat.
“What’s so funny,” his father
demanded, as he backed up and headed down the mountain into North
Carolina?
