Old Times

Old Times

He hadn’t been to this small town in over twenty years, not since his dad died in 1980. Had a falling out with his brother right after that. There was no reason to make the three hundred mile trek to come to the one horse town any more just to see him. Said he would never talk to him again, and wouldn’t forgive him either. The words he now wished he had never said echoed over in his mind in a never-ending procession.

Over the hill and around the last curve leading into Bridgestone, everything was beginning to look familiar. Sandy soil, mesquite trees, rocky hills interspersed with prickly pear cactus. He wanted to make a short tour around the town to the old places he used to hang around so he made a left, down the farmer’s market road to the bridge. It wasn’t much of a bridge but a place that held long ago memories of two young boys frolicking in the creek below. The bridge was old when he first remembered seeing it. Steel trestle, with the steel braces running in a big arch on each side supporting the wooden planks running the full length below. Each plank was about twelve inches wide and spaced the same as most cars tires are. Worn smooth with the years of use giving the wood a shiny look like it had been varnished. He pulled off the road and walked up to look down on the water below. The entire area was abundant with huge old oak trees as were all areas where there was ample water supply. He could hear the grass crunch as he stepped on it as clouds of dust were stirred with each step, been dry, he thought. Ha, at first sight was the big flat rock ledge they fished from. It was one huge rock with a flat top that hung over the edge of the creek. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Below the ledge is a deep section of the creek, which usually contained some good, though not big, catfish they would try to entice to come to dinner. Just two boys in cut off blue jeans and sometimes shoes and a shirt enjoying the hours they had during the summer vacation.

Back to the highway and over to the other side was the cemetery. Lots of kinfolks were there so he felt among loved ones. Only two more now that carried the family name that would fill spaces here. Walking up to the granite stone he could see his dad’s name. “Oh Dad, if you were here you could tell me what to do, but since you left no one else can.” A tear fell on the cold granite stone as he tried to regain composure. “ Lord knows, I have been coming up with my own answers for the last twenty years, guess I can now. You rest Pop, I’ll think of something.” The something he was thinking about was the rift between him and his brother; he just wanted to put it behind him now.

Next stop was the Fair Grounds, still filled with the big old pecan trees they used to harvest when they were boys. It was a public park so when we harvested one would climb the trees with a fishing pole and knock them down while the other would pick them up. Looks like there was some recent activity with the grass trampled all over, he wondered if it was a fair or a circus like they loved so as kids. Work all day just to have enough to come enjoy the excitement. Nothing else drew the townspeople together at night so much as the things that would go on here. There was a dozen or so people over at the rodeo grounds, must have been some mini rodeo or something he thought.

Down the old gravel road to what used to be his maternal grandparents’ house. A big old two story made with native stone. He remembered when it was cold out the stone inside the house would sweat. When the wind blew he could see the curtains move making an all night stay on a cold night an experience. The only heat was natural gas space heaters that were notorious sources of fire if left unattended. So at bedtime all the heat was turned off. Laying there on a cold moonlit night with two pair of wool socks and flannel pajamas, watching the curtains move when the wind blew was the coldest experience of his life. As he rounded the curve he was startled to see the old house gone and a trailer sitting on the lot. The only thing remaining to identify it by was a native rock fence about three feet high which contained the soil making the small hill that included the entire half acre or so level.

OK he thought, one more place to see as he turned around and headed down the gravel road to the other house that used to belong to his other grandparents. They had owned the property on both sides of the road amounting to maybe five acres he thought. Down the road and turn left to park beside the house. As he arrived he was startled to see there was a gate across the road. He wouldn’t even get to see the house. Whoever had bought it apparently wanted privacy. I guess they are right when they say you can never go home again. Places where we spent countless hours, talking, having family gatherings, gardening and just living, they don’t even exist the way we remember them anymore.

Ok he thought, it is time…time to make amends. Back down the road to his brother’s house. He thought, first about the rift that caused the divide, then about the doctor’s prediction that he had only three months to live. Nothing else mattered anymore except connecting one more time with the one person in the world he had shared everything with before he departed. They were so close at that time that people would remark they never saw two brothers so close.

Pulling up out front, he sat and surveyed for a minute. The house was in dire need of paint and the grass looked mostly dead and badly in need of cutting. He wondered what had happened to him since his wife died a year ago. This didn’t look good, the house looked almost vacant. He strode onto the porch with a creak and walked up to the door, knocking. “Come in”, came the very weak reply. He turned the knob and entered, the room was dark and had an odor that hang over the room like a fog. He could just barely make out a figure on the couch. He reached to turn the light switch on… What he saw was not what he had anticipated. A grubby unshaven dirty old man, his heart sank. “Bubba, are you ok?” he managed to say amid his surprise. “Bubba, is that you? Came a weak reply. “What has happened to you?” “Well, when Luanne died I just didn’t want to go on anymore. There was no one else in my life. I can’t care for myself like she used to.” “With my hip injury I can hardly get around, sometimes I fall and can’t get up until the neighbor comes over.” “How often does the neighbor come over?” “Once every two or three days”, he replied. “Have you been to see a Doctor at all?” “ Went a few months ago but he just said I’m going to die”. “When”, he asked. “three Months, he said”. “Ha”, he said, “Bubba lets go home.” With that said he helped his brother into his wheelchair and out to the car for the long drive home. Neither said another word about the rift.

“Bubba, remember the old catfish hole where we used to go?” “I think about it daily”, his brother said. “I was there this morning”, he said. “ Remembering the twelve pounder you caught, nice dinner that puppy was, huh?” “Oh, yea, haven’t thought about that fish in years, never expected you to remember it.” “Well Bubba, I have never forgotten it, beat my ten pounder and I never got over it”. “You could have beaten me by a half pound and it would be OK, but two pounds I don’t have a chance of beating”. “Ha, Ha, I give lessons every Friday if you are interested”. “No thanks, my next one will surely beat yours”.

And so the conversation went during the entire trip.

Somewhere along the way they got on the cemetery. “You know we are the last of our namesakes to be buried in the Bridgestone Cemetery,” he said. “Well wherever you are Bubba, I want to be too”. That said there was a long silence as they both pondered what had happened and what could have been.