Joseph Ball : I once knelt, deep in a whispery forest, under a leaf filtered sky, beside a broad flat lake.
There’s a place I know in Arkansas where the narrow road turns and wraps around wonderful scenic views. About halfway between, “I guess I know where I’m going”, and “I’m lost as a goose”, lies a wide curve with a shelf cut into the side of the mountain. The space is long enough and wide enough to hold a warm-welcome diner with a red painted sign, “Mountain Country Diner. Hot meals prepared fresh”. “Shelly Beth’s Fried Pies” is on a smaller sign below.
The wide parking lot is loose red gravel. This is the only restaurant for miles. The lot is usually full, but you can always fit in one more. Just like seats at grandmother’s table. It is a popular place.
One dappled sunlight day, I ordered a plate dinner, including sliced red tomatoes, buttered crookneck squash, fried okra, yellow cornbread cooked done on the bottom, and hot meatloaf with just enough thick brown gravy. Or maybe just a little more brown gravy.
I sat quietly as my waitress said things to the cook. Two other waitresses were dealing plates off the arm.
As my food arrived, a young family entered the restaurant. The handsome husband wore a blue plaid shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap. His lovely wife wore a long white dress with red flowers. Over the dress, she wore a light pink dressing gown. She had sunshine in her face and a lilt in her voice. They held the hands of a cute little girl with long brown hair. The young girl wore a pink dress. A matching pink bow was in her hair. The husband lifted the young girl into a chair, right beside his wife at a nearby table. He sat across the table, facing them. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but they were enjoying the day. It must have been a special day.
The waitress took their orders to the kitchen.
When their food arrived, I watched as the mother wrapped her arm around her daughter so she could cut her daughter’s food with both hands. As her food was cut, the little girl was totally wrapped in her mother’s arms. She rested her head peacefully on her mother’s shoulder. The little girl looked up at her mother, as her food was cut in front of her. No word was spoken in that precious moment.
There may come a day, years from now, when my eyes will grow dim. My firm steps will become a shuffle, and I will miss a sometimes word. I hope that day will be many years from now.
When that day arrives, I hope someone will take me to a warm-welcome country diner, deep in the Arkansas mountains, where fresh vegetables are served. I will order sliced red tomatoes, buttered crookneck squash, fried okra, yellow cornbread cooked done on the bottom, and hot meatloaf with just enough thick brown gravy. Or maybe a little more brown gravy.
When my plate is centered before me, I hope a nice lady wearing a long white dress with red flowers, covered with a light pink dressing gown will come sit beside me. She will have sunshine in her face and a lilt in her voice. She will wrap her arm around behind me and cut my food with both hands before me. First, she will butter my yellow cornbread, while it is hot. Then she will slice the fresh red tomatoes into small triangles. And then she will then cut the hot meatloaf into small bites, with just enough brown gravy. Or maybe a little more brown gravy.
Perhaps she will not notice if I rest my head peacefully on her shoulder.
About book
My name is Joseph Edward Ball. I'm a Southern writer. I invite you to take a country walk with me.
You will meet my Aunt Faye, who upset the postmaster when she accidentally shut down the post office for an entire day. Daisy, my long tail liver spot, flap ear, wide grin Government registered Catahoula Hound will tail-tap hello to you.
Come walk with me into green woods, where leafy trees have low voices, tall sycamores reach for the yellow sun, and a lonesome redbird talks to me. Join me with my childhood friend, John Allen Kirkpatrick as we sit on a fallen barky brown log in a whispery forest watching two small leggety beetles take a leisurely stroll.
I will introduce you to my Aunt Edith, who had lipsticky lips, smoked filter cigarettes and opened her own car doors. You will meet my father who spoke little and said much. And I want you to meet my mother, who taught me poetry. She served speckle butter beans and yellow cornbread, but she never served pizza. Sit with me and some sweet little old blue hair berry hat church ladies at a country picnic and I will tell you why to always eat the fried chicken first. And we will sit the iron trestle bridge over the tadpole creek that drank Tommie Jean Wilkins one hot summer day. You will want to meet the consecrated dog and the cow who went to college.
I'm a picture of my past. Come walk with me now and meet my world.
Talking with Red Bird
I once knelt, deep in a whispery forest, under a leaf filtered sky, beside a broad flat lake, in the place where nowhere begins.
A Red Bird flew down to sit upon my upright knee.
We had a deep talk, Red Bird and me.He told me of his droll fatherwho got around some, and his sweet mother who didn’t. Out of respect, we never discussed fried chicken, but he admitted he enjoyed a little devil in his eggs, like those deep creek Baptists. Like those Baptists and their deviled eggs. Maybe he was a Baptist bird.
After we discussed thortles of great importance, and thunkles of less importance, and sang rich songs of deep woodlands, Red Bird flew away. Might as well. We had nothing else to plan for, little else to argue over, nothing else to sing about, not much more to say.
I was sad to see Red bird leave, to fly somewhere from the place where we had briefly shared thinklingtime.
On yellow days, I wonder where Red Bird went. I wonder if he remembers me, and the thinkling time we spent together, in a whispery forest, under a leaf filtered sky, beside a broad flat lake, in the place where nowhere begins.
In Country Sunshine, the trees sing.
You really don’t talk with a tree. You just listen. Some trees have much to say. Some are very quiet. Trees mostly talk of times past. I never heard a tree talk of things to come.
Tall trees have more to say than shorter trees. Their mellow voices strike deep chords within my soul. I could listen for hours.
Sometimes I want to speak, but words never come out. I could never produce words as eloquent as a tall tree anyway. I could never muster the deep emotions as those I feel in the presence of trees.
Subdivision trees have no character or soul. They have no history to reveal. I feel sad as I walk shady sidewalks. There is so little conversation.
It is in deep woods that tall trees talk. It is in country sunshine that tall trees sing. It is in summer rains that tall trees drink and refresh. It is crisp fall days that leafy trees begin to weep. And it is in cold winters that brown leaves sleep beneath bare trees.
Birds spend time in trees. They miss so much. Instead of stopping to listen, they carry on their silly conversations. Trees always stop to listen until the birds pass by. Then they resume deep serious talks of warm summer days, drinking from the rain on days that cry, and taking messages from whispery winds that blow from somewhere to nowhere. A faraway wind carries more stories than a local breeze.
I don’t talk to the trees, but I listen.