IN DEVELOPMENT - "I AM" by Steve Orr

I AM
By Steve Orr

I am being whisked through moments in my life. I am aware, but I have no control. I know what is happening, but I don’t know why it is happening.

I am a baby crawling across the porch of my grandmother’s rent house. I feel the peeling paint of the slightly warped boards against the skin of my legs and the palms of my hands. It is crinkly. I am only wearing a diaper, but I do not feel cold. It is not sunny, but the clouds must be very high because I do not see them. There are cars going by on the street. The street is not close like it is on the side of the house; there is a lot of yard between the porch and the street. I do not know if I am alone, but I do not sense anyone else about. I stop crawling and just sit back on my bottom. I look up to see if anyone else is here as well.

I am 5 years old. It is fall, 1957. I am lying on my back in the backyard of our house at the corner of 21st Street and Madison. We have a long lot, and I am way toward the back where no trees block my view of the stars. I have my warm winter coat on, all buttoned up with my head cushioned in the hood, so I am warm and dry up top. But I can feel the snow seeping into my jeans. I am thinking I should bring a blanket next time. I am watching the stars to see if any of them move. It is not really very late, but it has gotten dark outside. My eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, so the starlight makes everything seem like day. It is quiet. And it is peaceful. And I am watching. Then light hits me, and I hear my mother call out all three of my names in a loud and exasperated voice. What are you DOING? You’re getting SOAKED! And then she is there and pulling me up onto my feet and pulling me toward the open back door of the house. I keep trying to tell her why I am here, but she is not listening. She is going on and on. I dig in my heels. I know this can only slow us, but it is all I can do. Finally, I say in my outside voice MAMA!, and she stops and gives me that look. I know I am about to get into big trouble, but I keep talking. They told us it was going to fly over tonight and that we could see it with our eyes. We wouldn’t even need binoculars. We could just watch the sky for any star that moved and that would be it. I have to stay so I can see it. She has a different look on her face now, the look that, much later in life I come to know as the considering look, but all I know now is that she is no longer mad at me. She says I find it hard to believe Mrs. Ayers told you to do this. You’re only in the first grade. I tell her no one told me to do it. I just decided to do it. She says How do you know about this? Did they talk about Sputnik in your class? And I tell her I heard the 6th graders talking about it when they lined up for lunch outside our classroom. Her cigarette is in the corner of her mouth and she is squinting against the rising smoke, but she also makes this face when she is thinking, so maybe she is thinking. There is a slight breeze blowing that I could not feel while lying on the ground, but now I feel it blowing through the back of my jeans where they are wet from the snow, and I suddenly have to pee. My mother knows this in the way mothers seem to always know everything. She keeps squinting at me. Then she says You go to the bathroom while I get my coat. I went to the bathroom and peed like a racehorse. When I went back to the kitchen my mother was wearing her warmest coat, and she was holding a blanket. As we walk to the back of the lot she says Why didn’t you ask me? And I say because you would say no.

I am 8 years old and it is early spring 1960. I am very sad. I have been sad all day. This morning Daddy drove over Jack Junior when he was leaving to go to work. Jack was still a puppy and never was very smart even for a dog. Daddy thinks Jack must have snuggled up by the rear tire to keep warm during the night. Connie is 6 and just keeps crying. It is a Saturday but the cartoons don’t make us laugh. Mama say You can’t just mope about all day, but we do. Finally she says in her quiet voice so we won’t hear, but we do, Dow, DO something. So we are now at the back of the lot next to the barrel that we use to burn the trash. Burning the trash is one of my jobs. It is my favorite job. The barrel sits just inside the property line between our yard and Mr. and Mrs. Simmons’ yard. There is no fence, but we know where the line is. Daddy planted Elms all along the property line when we first moved in. I was eleven months then and Connie was not born. Between the elms are bushes we use whenever we have to go out and choose our own switch when we have done wrong. There is no mistaking where the line is. But at the back of the lot there is a longish gap, and then there is a Maple tree right at the alley. It makes a strait line with the elms and bushes. Daddy has dug a shallow hole in the gap, right in line with all the trees and bushes. He places the bundle, which we know is really Jack Junior, into the hole, and he gets us to help push the dirt back in. When we are done there is a little mound of dirt sticking up above the grass. Daddy says Do you want to say a prayer? And Connie says God, please watch over Jack Junior. She is still crying a little, but it is just tears and no sound. I say How will we remember Jack is here? Won’t the grass just grow over and then we won’t be able to find it anymore? Daddy has his mildly surprised look. Daddy was smart and everyone knew it. He looks around and then walks over to the back edge of our lot where there is a small tree. I don’t know what kind of tree it is. He breaks off a twig from the tree and brings it back. He sticks it into the middle of the mound and says There. Now you can always find Jack.

I am 16 years old. It is late December 1967. It is my birthday. I haven’t thought about Jack Junior for a very long time, nor have I spent much time lying out under the stars. The landscape of my life has changed considerably in these 8 years. My parents, at my request, stopped giving me birthday gifts when I was 12. I could never shake the thought that these had just been carved out of my Christmas gifts; I asked them to please just stop. So, I was very surprised to see a small wrapped box next to my plate when I came into the kitchen. I was not surprised to find cake and candles because I would have been stupid to have asked them to stop doing that; but the box caught me off guard. Daddy says It’s not what you think. I have become increasingly certain Daddy has no earthly idea what I think, so I don’t give much credence to this statement. Still, it is a very small box, so even if they had carved it out of my Christmas gifts, it wouldn’t leave much of a hole. When I opened the box I found a gold plated key to the Barracuda. I was genuinely surprised and, much to my surprise, touched. Beyond the necessities, my parents did not spend money on me. I guess you could say the same about my sister, but her necessities included a closetful of nice clothes, makeup, and shoes for every occasion. Beyond a couple pairs of blue jeans and a few long sleeve shirts I inherited from my older cousin Larry, my wardrobe consisted of Sunday clothes (one suit, one dress shirt, a few hand-me-down ties from my cousin Larry, one nice pair of shoes), a pair of tennis shoes, and a beloved ski sweater (also a hand-me-down from cousin Larry). In the summers we cut off the legs of my jeans so I would have shorts, and then bought new jeans each fall in time for school. So that is why I was touched by the gold plated key. My parents could not (and would not) buy me my own car, but by giving me this key they were saying You can drive the family car. I am touched. And, here is the kicker, I find I am happy. I kiss Mama, hug Daddy, and run out to the car. It is a beauty; all blue and white, my school colors. I drive to Bruce’s house to see if he wants to go for a drive on my very first day of freedom.

I am sitting in The Torch in Abilene, Texas, drinking coffee and eating pink cookies. It is November 19, 1972. And things have changed. My date is sharing things about her life, as am I. We have stopped being college students on a date and have become people who trust each other enough to share life stories. One of the surprises is that we share views on faith, church, Bible, and God. This, in my experience, is new. And I begin to feel hope.

I am standing in the doorway leading into Elizabeth’s parlor. It is December 1973. My button has just come off in my hand. I am not too worried. There is another button on my coat. I reach to push the second button through the button hole. This button also comes off in my hand. I stare down into my hand at the button lying there. My mind is completely blank. I know I must do something, but have no earthly idea what that something is. Cheryl rounds the corner, takes in everything with her hawk-like gaze and says Stay right there, like there is something else I can do. I have no idea of the passage of time, but it seems almost instantly that she reappears before me, needle and thread in hand. She quickly sews the button back onto my jacket and says There. John comes up beside me and says Everything OK? I nod. Then the music starts and we walk into the parlor and to the fireplace where we turn and face all the people. Pattie and Terry walk down the stairs and then to the fireplace. Counting the preacher and us, there are exactly 50 people here. Our musicians, all friends, play and sing Sunrise, Sunset from Fiddler on the Roof. I see my parents and sister, my cousin Larry and his family, Pattie’s parents and sister. The rest of them kind of blur out. We say the vows we wrote. I forget a few words, but it seems to work just fine with them gone. We quote to each the other the scriptures we chose. I say Acknowledge the Lord in all your ways and He will direct your paths. It is very warm in front of the fire. The five of us are starting to perspire.

I am standing in my backyard. Only it is no longer my backyard. It is October 1978. I stand in the backyard of the house I grew up in. And I am in awe. My eleven-month old daughter holds my hand. I am looking up, way up. I feel her looking at me. My mouth is slightly open. I can’t think of anything to say. Finally, I pick her up and cradle her in my arms as I walk across the yard, someone else’s yard now, closer and closer to the giant oak tree. As we near the base of the tree, I set her down and reach out to touch the bark. I reach both arms around the trunk, my fingers barely touching each other on the back side of the tree. Daddy? my daughter asks, a whole paragraph of curiosity couched in that one word. This I say, and pat the tree is Jack Junior. She pats the tree and says Why does this tree have a name?

I am standing in the Narthex at the back of the church. It is summer 2003. My daughter is holding onto my right arm. She gives that arm a little hug. I look down into her face. She is beaming up at me. The music starts and we step forward into the arch of the double doors leading into the sanctuary. Everyone is standing and smiling as we walk down the center aisle. I look down again. She is still beaming, only now she is looking toward the front of the church. We process past the pews and into the future.