Into the Fire

REMEMBERED

He hoped this hadn’t been a bad idea, but even if it was, there weren’t a lot of choices as far as he was concerned. Why not go back to his roots? He just hoped she was still here right where she’d always been. How old must she be by now? At least 80 he figured.  What if she was in some kind of facility? Not her. He couldn’t imagine it.

     He drove his black Bronco II up the long gravel drive to the house, the hot dust spinning around behind him no matter how slow he attempted to go. No rain around here in awhile. Typical hot summer day. He reached the asphalt circular drive, the irrigated summer flowers brightly surrounding it on each side. He admired the sprawling Spanish style ranch house and put the vehicle in park, shutting it off. He stayed inside it for an extra minute trying to remember why he thought he should come here, but he knew. In his heart he knew. Heaving a weary sigh, he got out and walked along the stone path leading up to the exotic design of the carved double door. He knocked, a firm knock that spoke of a confidence he didn’t feel or own.

     It took so long for her to answer he was just about to head back to his rig. He stayed put when he heard the big door open.

     There she stood, a tiny wisp of a woman leaning on a cane on her right side. Her grey hair with a few black strands remaining was cut stylishly short and held its shape on her narrow head. She wore Levis and a bright yellow western blouse with white vertical stripes and matching dainty yellow and white sandals on her small narrow feet. Her blue eyes sparkled bright as he remembered how they always seemed to look right through him . . . and still did.

     “Grams,” he greeted her quietly with the name he and many others had always known her by.

     She narrowed her gaze and cocked her head just slightly. Then she took her long thin left arm and reached up to grab his right arm and turn him just enough to where she could see his dark auburn hair pulled neatly back and tied with a leather string in a ponytail resting just below the nape of his neck. Then she pulled him back to face her.

     “Tommy, that you?” she asked matter-of-factly.

     “Yeah, Grams, it’s me,” he replied, realizing she was the only one on the face of this earth who could still get away with calling him “Tommy”.

     She turned and began talking as she walked back into the house, expecting him to follow which he did. “Hank Jr. always used to like his hair grown all long like that. You know it drove Ace crazy. I think that’s why he did it. Course by the time he went into the military, all those pretty locks ended up on the floor, but he never really minded.”

     She walked all the way into the kitchen before she turned around again and told him to have a seat at the kitchen table. The place was immaculate and it was like stepping into a fancy hacienda in Mexico—at least what he imagined one would look like.

     “Something to drink?”

     “A coke if you have it, please, Grams.”

     “Of course I have a coke. Couldn’t live without it myself. Best drink on the face of the planet,” she said adamantly as she went to the modern stainless steel refrigerator and slid a glass into the alcove that produced ice. She filled two glasses with ice and then produced two cans of coke. “Here ya go.”

     “Thanks.”

     “So how old are ya now?” she asked, calculating in her mind how long it had been since she’d seen him. “’Bout 30 or so?”

     “Yeah, 31, almost 32.”

     “Seen some trouble, huh?” Compassion evident in her voice.

     He laughed slightly. “I think you’re the only one who could ever read my mind,” he answered, solemnity taking hold.

     “Ain’t about readin’ minds, Tommy. I always thought you pretty much put everything right out there for a person to see if they’d just look, you know?”

     He smiled at the old woman, appreciation for her straightforward ways welling up inside of him. “What’s with the cane, Grams?”

     She gave the cane a horrible look of disgust. “Temporary, my boy. Hip replacement.  Won’t be long and I won’t need it anymore.” She paused. “I almost didn’t use the darn thing, but when the doctor threatened me with the alternatives should I lose my balance and yada, yada, yada, I decided I wasn’t too proud to use it. For a short season, you know.”

     He took a drink of his coke, the cold welcome burn sliding down his throat.

     “So you need a place to stay?”

     “I do, Grams. But you know I’ll work for it. Anything you want done, I’ll do.”

     She eyed him. “That bad, huh?  Well, you know there’s always plenty to do, son. I don’t run the farm anymore. Leased out the hay fields. A good family operates it like Ace would’ve done, so it’s alright.”

     “How long has it been now, Grams?”

     “Ten years.” She paused and gazed across the room. “Seems like just yesterday he’d be comin’ in from the fields for supper. Darn him. The old soldier made it to see Jesus before me. We used to argue about it, you know. He insisted he’d beat me to Him. True to his word . . .” Her voice trailed off. 

Father, you're the whole reason I can put two words together, write a story, come up with a title. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.