Category: Non Fiction

Henry the eighth I am…

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories20 Comments

I’m sitting here in my writer’s garret staring out the window. A full moon hangs high in the sky. The weather is warm and a breeze drifts in through my open window. I tell Google to play my favorite radio channel from Pandora. It’s mostly 1960’s and 1970’s music and I close my eyes to let the music surround me. ‘Henry the Eighth’ by Herman’s Hermits comes on and the images stretch out from a past life and pull my mind back to a simpler time. Before responsibilities of family and jobs consumed every moment; before the worries about how much money was enough money and before those dear to me departed to their heavenly home.

You see, Henry the Eighth was a favorite song from our youth. It was playing on the radio that night the front tire slipped into the loose gravel along the side of the road and sent us rolling end over end. I suppose it was a miracle that no one suffered any injuries, except Phillip, who got a bloody nose when I ‘accidentally’ kicked him in the face. We just pushed the car back over onto its wheels and drove back to town like nothing happened.

Now, when I hear the song, I see myself in my brother Norman’s 1966 Oldsmobile. With us three youngest brothers Paul, Phil and me rolling around the back seat while Norman performs ‘Bat turns’. My brother David in the passenger’s seat serving as the official co-pilot, beverage controller and radio technician.

We’ll cruise down those ancient gravel roads that lead us to nowhere in particular, just five brothers sliding through the darkness with the AM radio blaring out the day’s top twenty hits. None of us giving a damn about anything but the moment.

Oh youth, you make me smile.

Another Pleasant Sunday…

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories10 Comments

A Sunday dinner at Pappy and Grandma’s house at first glance was a basic affair where we gathered to eat, talked and just enjoyed the company of family. To the untrained eye of a child, each dinner seemed to be a repeat of the one the week before. After the obligatory hugs, kisses, you’re just as cute as a bug in the rugs and hello uncle somebody that I have no idea who you are; the children were exiled into the yards to explore their imaginations. There, the youngest of the kids usually had to suffer from the domination of the older children who dictated as to what games to play and even which rules would be followed on that particular day.  

Inside the house, the adults split into their groups. Usually, but not always, decided by gender. The females occupied the kitchen and the back of the house. Having never been a member of that group, I’m positive that they have their own stories to tell. But my ignorance of the subject dictates that I am better off not leaving any comments on the matter.

The male species would move to the front of the house where Pappy could keep a keen eye peeled on the comings and goings of the neighborhood. His chair was also stationed directly beneath the thermostat. Which made him king of the temperature control. In the various chairs and couches, the older uncles, fathers and brothers would take up their places as befitting the lords and under lords of the castle. Underlings, those that no longer had to be exiled for immaturity but lacked the experience to contribute anything worthwhile to the conversation, sat about the floor. Or if there were too many of them, they migrated to the front porch to form their own group. They always stayed within site of the herd in case some opening should occur in the seating arrangement. Or some topic of conversation might justify them to speak to the elders of the tribe. Conversation varied greatly depending on which council members sat in judgement on any particular Sunday.

The things a young person was taught in those hours spent were far more precious than just a free meal. Those things would never be learned while attending any school. We learned about religion, weather, rotating crops, which politicians were trustworthy or just downright criminals. A question would always come along that would require some hands on training where we would all stroll out to the garage to learn the proper way to replace an alternator or to the garden to view the best way to fertilize tomatoes. We learned respect for those that were more experienced. We learned the art of conversation. No TV’s blared in the background, no cell phones lit the faces of comatose children, and no Instant Messenger,  Google, Facebook or Twitter, or games pinged their annoyance into the ears of others. This was our social media.

When it came time to eat, there were always two tables. The children were seated and fed first. This wasn’t about getting them out of the way but about tradition. Stemming from the days when food was a scarce and parents made sure that the children were fed so they could survive.

I know that we are all searching for a way back to that simpler life. But the change is never going to be found in a 2/3rd majority vote by some congress. The change that we need is inside each of us. Perhaps a great start can be a return to that Sunday dinner. Just leave the cell phones at the door.

A New Day

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories15 Comments

     The day crossed the thin line of the silver water of the Wakenda creek on the old bridge with its ornate metal trusses and wood planked floor. It swirled around grain silos that stood like lone sentinels against the morning sky and past white two story farmhouses with green shudders.

     The first day of school strolled quietly into town traveling down Fourth Street and past the Wakenda Elementary School. It rolled around The Church of Christ with its tall steeple glinting white in the morning sun. It marched tirelessly across Buchanan Street to engulf ‘Old Hermit’ Winfrey’s shack and then floated over the strawberry field where its breeze pulled the sweet smell from the plants. 

     It reached the house on the corner of Crary and brought with it a soft breeze that promised a respite from the stifling humidity of the last few weeks. The kind of dampness that made sweat bead on your forehead with just the thought of working. It would provide a welcomed relief from the oppressing heat had held the people of Wakenda hostage. Like prisoners, condemned to huddle around fans, open windows, or in rocking chairs on shaded porches where they frantically waved newspapers, flyswatters, or anything that might get a little air stirring.

     The day slipped past an old redbone coonhound lying in a hole that he had dug in the soft earth beneath the porch. He opened one eye, yawned and realizing it was just the sound of the breeze rattling the loose shudders decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of moving and returned to his sleep. It awakened the Sparrows and Robins nesting in the maple trees and they began a chorus of chirping as they greeted the first soft rays of the new dawn.

     Riding on the breeze the first day of school moved between the rails of the porch and climbed silently through the window. Once inside, it swirled about the small bedroom devouring the darkness and injecting the sounds and smells of late summer into every crevice.

     It seeped through the seams of the tattered homemade patchwork quilt crumpled in a pile in the center of the bed and gently nudged sleep from the lump that lay curled beneath it. The lump remained motionless, its mind still struggling against sleep in an effort to regain conscious thought.

But the warmth and softness of the quilt wrapped itself more tightly around the lump’s shoulder in a desperate attempt to lure it back into its dreams. But the coming dawn was relentless and day nudged the lump harder. As the haze of sleep began to clear away…I reached out and tossed back the covers. Ready to face a new day.

Cut me to the bone…

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories29 Comments

As I look back at my youth, I remember the summer days seemed to hold onto the light with clenched fists much longer that it does now. But darkness would still eventually push daytime into night and that’s when the ‘Mother’s Commandments’ would take over. I think its rule #3 that said, “You’d better be in this yard when the street light comes on.” It was right behind ‘Never lie’ and ‘Never steal’ but before “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

After the homework was finished, the chores of the day completed and moms and dads settled in for an evening of Gun Smoke, the kids were let loose upon the town, pretty much free to do as we wished as long as we obeyed the commandment. As twilight began to stretch across the empty streets of Wakenda small groups of children would gather into their respective cliques. The boys of our end of town, which mostly was just us brothers in one yard and the girls, again mostly sisters, would gather in another. But this hot August night had something different going on. There were some new faces in the girl’s group, a couple of friends from out of town visiting their grandparents.

As you can imagine, this was a rare occurrence and word spread quickly throughout our little village. We had to act fast to show our warrior skills. Time was of the upmost importance. We didn’t want any rival tribes from the other side of town invading our space. It started off simply enough. The boys raced each other down the length of the block. The losers, usually me since I was the youngest, followed along behind the winners as they strutted back to the starting line to begin a new race. A few races passed and it became evident that the same people were going to win every time. But this fact must have been lost on the girls because they stuck their noses in the air and turned away, uninterested in the ways of men.

It seemed we needed a new strategy. There was an old apple tree in the yard across the street. Its apples were never much good for eating but they made descent projectiles. So we chose up sides for a friendly game of ‘see if you can hit the other person with an apple and make him cry’. Kind of like dodge ball…only with small green apples.

Ah, we had their attention now. As the smell of sweat and testosterone hung heavy in the evening air, they crossed the yard to join in the games. Before long, they were throwing apples at us boys as we ran across the street and jumped into the ditch in a true display of our physical prowess.

Suddenly, my brother disappeared into the ditch and never returned. At first we yelled out to him, calling him various feminine body parts and heckled him for his lack of manly appendages. Then panic set in as he still had not climbed up from the ditch. A frantic search, found him lying in a puddle of blood at the bottom of the ditch, his knee cut open to the bone by a hidden brick. The blood was still pouring between the fingers of his hand as he clenched his knee. Our sisters all flocked to him. They ripped his shirt to make a bandage. The new girl hugged his neck and kissed his cheek.

He smiled at us as we carried him to the house. The emergency room gave him 27 stitches and he had to walk with a crutch for a month. But he had won this summer’s prize. All hail Chief David.

July 21st, 1969…

On By Jerry BrothertonIn Non Fiction, Short Stories2 Comments

It was 9:56 AM as I sat in the living room with my eyes glued to the television, and heard Neal Armstrong proclaim to the universe, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

For a twelve year old’s imagination, hopes and dreams, this was not just a step onto the moon, but a step into the heavens. My heart pounded and mind raced at what promised to be the beginning of a new way of life.

My God, we’d just touched the surface of another world. Nothing would ever be the same again. If we could do this, there would be no problems that mankind could not overcome. Over population, famine and war would no longer haunt us. Star Trek had it right all along. We were now free to move among the stars. Surely, it would only be a matter of a few years and there would be a colony on the Moon, then Mars and then beyond our solar system. The expanse of the universe was now our playground. Nothing can hold humanity back.

By the end of the week, baseball, fishing and summer days had pushed the momentous occasion out of my mind. Once the ‘space race’ was over, we realized that we had nothing to win. Without a prize, it didn’t take long for humanity to lose interest as well.