The Grave Digger - A Southern Trilogy, Part II

Last week’s was about Henry, ‘The Tire Kicker’ (Part I of the Trilogy). We sit on a bench outside Edenfield’s Buffet, c. 1950’s, in Metter, GA, heat index 112. He used to dig graves. Reciting his travails is a grave undertaking.

I’d promised Henry the tailings of Edenfield’s Buffet if he’d tell me about grave diggin’. We grab a booth, get sweet tea and graze on the buffet remnants. We hustle, since all leftovers go to the jail. We’re lucky. The Saturday-night drunks aren’t.

We swoop down on the fried chicken, split the last slice of meatloaf and ration the rutabagas and remaining veggies. The lone surviving biscuit of gigantic proportions calls me by name. We flip for the last piece of apple pie.

Henry attacks the chicken like a condemned man eating his last meal. With a drumstick in each hand, he alternates a hand-to-mouth routine. He resembles the conductor of a poultry-house symphony. His lips gleam from the grease, and he swoons in some state of nirvana.

I ask Henry about grave diggin’. Ignoring the napkin, he slides the back side of his right hand across his lips and says, “Don’t take nothin’ but a strong back and a weak mind. I got both. Only problem if there’s lots of funerals, we gotta dig at night.”

“What’s it like diggin’ graves?” I ask.

He multi-tasks, sucks on a drumstick and thinks. He says, “Tedious, but scary at night. I seen shadows, hear moans and wails. One night a grave spoke to me. It called my name. Said it was the devil. Said I was botherin’ him. Me and Willie took off.” I often hear the same voice.

I tell him graves don’t talk. He says, “The dead ain’t dead in the cemetery. On my first night dig I seen two ghosts dancin’ on a tombstone. They seen me and hollered and chased me. I ain’t got over that yet.”

I laugh. “Henry, cemeteries are where teenage boys take girlfriends to scare their pants off.” He licks the drumstick and ponders the possibility.

I ask him why he lost his job. He says, “Nursing homes. Too many folks dyin’. We can’t dig holes fast enough to bury ‘em in. So the boss bought a back hoe. Me and Willie can’t keep up with no back hoe.” And we wonder why unemployment’s high.

I ask about his strangest experience.

He says, “Me and Willie’s diggin’ a grave and we hear this buzzin’ comin’ from the ground. We ‘fraid we done messed with the devil again, but it’s a hornet’s nest. They eat us alive. We knows the funeral’s in a few hours, so we had to do somethin’ fast. So we lit a stick of dynamite and run.” He pauses, contemplates the chicken bone.

“What happens?” I ask.

He says, “We blowed up some tombstones and a hole big enough for a Mack truck. There wuz caskets flyin’ and body parts and bones scattered everywhere. We knowed we was in big trouble with the law. So we jus’ raked up the parts and dumped ‘em in the hole and covered it up. They ain’t found out yet, and we ain’t talkin’.” I tell him a lot of people would like to bury their past this easy.

I ask who Willie is. He says, “My brother. Some says he ain’t right, but he is. Folks calls him The Knee-Jerker, ‘cause he’s got a wigglin’ leg. Born like that.” How lucky can I get on a Sunday? I ask if I can meet Willie. He says, “Shore. Let’s go.”

We walk out of Edenfield’s as the Sheriff’s van pulls up for leftovers. Outside, a dry, vagabond breeze blows down the deserted street. Yellowed leaves, dead and dying, scurry in confusion at our feet. We pass a boarded up bank with paint peeling from its pillars. Weeds grow in crevices along a forsaken strip of sidewalk that ends at the edge of nowhere.

I pause and glance at the scene. Is this a metaphorical dream of today’s life in a small town bypassed by time? Who can make this stuff up? The Tire Kicker, The Grave Digger, and now, The Knee Jerker.

Life can’t be figured out…you just gotta show up and dig.


Bud Hearn
August 25, 2011

The Tire Kicker.. A Southern Trilogy Part III

An August Sunday in Metter, Georgia, heat index, 112.

I’m sitting on a bench under an ancient oak tree in front of Edenfield’s Buffet, waiting for my run at the lunch feedbag. It occupies a nondescript building mid-block on Main Street. It’s a 1950’s left-over. I watch the after-church crowd come and go. The screen door flaps and slaps as it closes, reminding me of biscuits and gravy.

Toothpicks wiggle in the mouths of men as they talk of heat and hurts. The smell of fried chicken hangs in sultry Sunday air. I wonder if they left any biscuits for me. The oak leaves overhead shiver as a scant breeze momentarily resurrects them. Nothing else moves in the lifeless streets. Life is predictable, even manageable, in small towns.

In the distance I see him, a gaunt, gray-haired figure. The black man moves methodically among the scattered cars and farm trucks. He kicks tires. He stoops, looks and kicks. The same thing, each vehicle, each tire. He places a small card on windshields. Then moves on. I’m intrigued.

Small towns are microcosms of America. They have one of every kind. Locked doors and darkened windows guard family secrets. Everybody knows but nobody’s talking, except in whispers. Secrets remain enigmatic to strangers. Who’s this Tire Kicker? What are his secrets? I soon find out.

He kicks the tires of a rusted Ford pickup parked in front of me. Satisfied for some reason, he moves on. I speak. “Hi ya doin?” I ask. “Hot enough?” He pauses, studies me, and answers, “Mighty hot, boss.” I ask, “How come you’re kickin’ these tires?” He sways side to side, scratches his head and answers, “It’s muh job, I reckon.” He stands there, fumbles with his fingers. He’s old, maybe 80.

“How’d you come by this job?” I ask. He looks down, shuffles, and says, “My mama say it were a natural-born thing, say I be a born kicker. Say I kick her till I come out. Say it be in the Bible, something ‘bout kickin’ against goads. I figure tires be good as goads.” I say, “Well, can’t argue with mama or the Bible, huh?” He nods.

“What’s that you’re putting on the windshields?” I ask. “This here card,” he says. He hands me one. It reads, ‘Ralph’s Retreads, Bald Rubber Renewed. Cheap.’ I say, “Ralph your boss?” “Sho’ nuf, yessiree. Took me on when I lost muh job at the cemetery. They say my foot be too big to dig. Mistah Ralph say my foot jus’ right for this here job.”

I look at his kicking foot and breathe an expletive. “Man, you got one big foot. How big is it?” He replies, “The doctor say it be the biggest foot he ever seen, say it be about two foot long.” (Bet it can kick more than tires!)

“Let me see you kick one,” I say. He grins, turns and kicks the front tire of a red Cadillac. The car shakes, the tire explodes, rubber flies. “Wow!” I say. He grins, shows me it’s a tire with no treads. He says, “That tire gone kill somebody, hit needs recappin’.” He slaps Ralph’s card on the windshield.

“Have a seat. What’s your name?” I say. “Henry,” he says. I tell him he’s not the only tire kicker around. “I ain’t seen none. Where they at?” he says. “Everywhere,” I say. “Where they work at?” he asks. “They don’t. They’re pretenders,” I say. “Huh?” he says. “They play make-believe, waste your time,” I say. He shakes his head, can’t grip the concept. He pulls an ice pick out of his pocket. I wonder if he’s suggesting…nah. I let it go.

“Some folks also have foot-in-mouth disease.” I say. He looks at his two-footer, then at me. “You jokin’?” My explanation fails. I decide not to tell him about ‘pulling somebody’s leg.’

I ask about his cemetery job. “Grave digger,” he says. Yes! I almost shout. “Henry, how ‘bout we go have some fried chicken? You tell me about it.” I say. His smile says yes. We do.

You can’t believe the secrets a man will reveal with a drumstick in his hand. I’ll pass ‘em on to you next week. Today I got lucky. And, there was one biscuit left!

Bud Hearn
August 18, 2011

The Man Who Refused to Listen

Harvey is a friend of mine and his ears no longer work.
He made a choice some years ago and closed his ears to life.
It did no good to beg and plead, his friends could not prevail.
So now his ears are vestiges, their doors are bolted tight.

He didn’t from youth start out that way, it built as he moved along.
He heard the noise the world sent out and the torment caused him pain.
He feigned at first to remove himself from the tumult and the fray.
But bit by bit the din prevailed and pounded his brain at will.

We tried our best to talk him out of trying such a cure.
He argued that it made good sense to avoid the wicked curse.
He often shook his fist at God for making him like Job.
No answer did he ever hear but silence from The Throne.

He must have thought that silence was balm to sooth the searing pain.
For in some moment unbeknown it formed his guiding plan.
He’s often asked to tell the ‘why’ of that which he has done.
He answers with a vacuous smile, “I’ve had enough, no more.”

It starts out small as most things do, but becomes a ball and chain.
Is there an hour when ears go deaf and ignore the preacher’s plea?
Or the reading of a recent death, or the cry of a hungry child?
Or maybe it’s the neighbor, who needs a helping hand?

Our friend had always heard from life, just what he wanted to hear.
Indifferent to the cares of life he turned a muted ear.
And now his ears have set him free from trauma everywhere.
His love is turned to bitter scorn, and his heart to solid stone.

The ways and means are plentiful to flee the vicissitudes.
But when we separate ourselves we live in a lonely tomb.
Some choose to close their eyes to the intrusions of this life.
Others use their email to live in outer space.

It’s easy to remove ourselves from grief as Harvey’s done.
Turn off the tube, quit reading news and cower in our caves.
But what’s the use of doing that and missing all the fun?
For that’s what life’s all about and the bad comes with the good.

I asked our friend if he’ll open his ears and try the world again.
He said, “It’s irrevocable, and the thing I’ve done is done.”
But now he sees a paradox in the condition that he chose.
The less he hears, the more he yearns for the life he’s left behind.

I wrote my friend to give advice to those who would try the same.
Weeks went by but soon it came, the letter with a terse reply.
The stains of tears were hard to miss as I read the simple words:
“Unstop your ears, the noise you hear, is the music of the dance.”

The road goes on forever and the party never ends!

Bud Hearn
August 11, 2011

Gnat Brains

It’s been a long few weeks. I feel brutalized, tormented and disgusted as I watch our Congressional delegates wrangle endlessly on C-Span, Fox News and CNN. They should be banned and substituted with the Three Stooges. At least we could get a laugh.

With a dark perspective we can get laughs from this congressional circus. Take from context some of the ranting by California Crown Jewel, Nancy Pelosi. Waving her arms like a crazed lunatic, she bellows such leftish nonsense words as the left is trying “to save life on this planet as we know it.” Wasn’t this administration’s mantra all about “Change?” Life as we know it currently will not survive on this planet!

The right hand is fist-pumping the air. It’s cheering the fact that the conservative base, terrorized by the Tea Party, is “now on the offensive, we’re winning and the foundation of our economy is at risk.” This is the same crowd that cannot dredge from the party’s dregs a viable candidate for a Presidential challenge in 2012. Are we better off?

The debt debate continued unabated until this week. It provided some bete noire entertainment. A bloody truce has been called, each side declaring victory. Like the NFL and players union, they’ve given us a break from the mundane to the insane. They’ve halted the acrimony, at least publicly, that fuels that august but impotent body. The nation has been pulled from the edge of the fiscal abyss once again by the sacrifice of tomorrow’s revenue. Have you unloaded your gun, and do you feel a little better about the continued solvency of this country? That’s what I thought.

I often live vicariously in these crucial monetary debates. This time I tried to understand the inherent differences by reconciling my left-leaning hand with my right-leaning one. Somehow they can never get together to applaud the consensus.

What consensus? My wayward left hand is all about ‘now,’ living by the philosophy of “spend now, for tomorrow you may die.” For years it has had control of the other hand. The culture of its ecosystem has deep roots. Which portends that my children may go hungry soon and live in poverty and tattered rags.

My right hand is more circumspect, but a pretty dull dude. Its mantra is: “Interest is dead money.” It’s all about rainy days and delayed self-gratification. It claims that the budget dictates. It threatens to bludgeon us with discipline. But sometimes, in some dark, sleazy bar, I find the left and the right drinking together, often drunk, riotous, incoherent and spending lavishly. Each blames the other on the morning-after hangover. It’s an insidious nightmare. I’m old beyond my years.

My left and right hands have never agreed on anything publicly. I live in a private hell trying to reconcile their childish behavior, their pouting and penchant for publicity. Currently the right hand controls the pen, hence the checkbook. But until recently the left hand had pretty much decimated the checkbook balances with its profligate, spendthrift ways. For the time being it seems the prodigal son has ‘come to himself’ and is heading home. Corn husks didn’t suit him.

I’ve tried to distill the essence of this debt debate. How did we get here? We didn’t order corn husks…we ate ‘high on the hog’ for years. How do we get out? Tighten the belt. What are the consequences? Higher taxes. One only has to look at their personal profligate habits to see it plainly. Age has a way of abandoning the macro for the micro. The consequences are ugly indeed.

Which brings me to the subject of gnat brains. They have no brains! They have a nervous system, an instinct for survival, that’s all. Their main source of food is nectar. On the Georgia coast they live quite lavishly on the nectar of human blood. An abundant flock occupies Washington and Wall Street. They are the blood-suckers of human nectar…the green kind. In terms of living for the ‘now,’ they have no equal. Life cycles are short for them.

Gnats with no brains live in many places. Often we have opportunities to anesthetize ourselves from these creatures before there’s no blood left. One can only hope the chemical formula will work in 2012.

Enjoy it while you have it!


Bud Hearn
August 4, 2011

Dialogue on the Merits of Men

It’s her fault. Well, sorta. She calls. But I answer. She’s my editor.

“How’s my favorite writer? Whatcha doin’?” She says. Honey drips from her voice. I sense a verbal flogging in the making.

“I’m playing hide and seek in Winn Dixie, looking for a can of tomatoes,” I say. “Been here for hours.”

“Are you lost again?” she snickers. I tell her it’s because my only clue was a vague description given by my wife. She said, “It has a white label with red tomatoes on it. Don’t come home without it, or else.” The “or else” troubles me.

Her voice suddenly changes. “Deadline’s tomorrow. Where’s your article?” she demands. “It’s showtime, the printer’s on hold and you’re late again, as usual. Why do you torture me?" A long silence ensues. “Well?” she says. Her voice is ice.

“Because I’m a man,” I say. “Men are born to torment women.” She’s not amused at my humor.

“What’s the theme?” I ask.

“It’s about men, my favorite subject,” she says. “Ah, you do have a heart after all,” I say. I feel her smile. I wonder if all women smile at the mention of ‘men.’ I know several who don’t!

“Are you joking?” I ask. “Why? Men are boring subjects.” My voice resembles a sniveling whine.

“Because I say so,” she says. Her voice becomes a whip. I feel the lashes. “You forget, most of our readers are women,” she says. I suggest an article with photos, entitled “The Folly of Women.” I add, “It’ll increase male readership.” Her mood is sullen. The silence stings.

“Ok,” I say, taking the bait. “What about men?”

She says, “Oh, write something about patriotism, or honor, or valor or heroism. Something high-minded, moral, romantic. You know, something neat.”

Something neat? I gag. “Have you forgotten what happened in the Garden of Eden?” I ask. “What?” she says. I remind her of The Primordial Curse. “Look, that couple had no morals. They got foreclosed. They’re now politicians. Nothing’s changed.”

“Surely there’s something redemptive about men,” she says. “I’ll ask the boys at the poker game tonight,” I say. She groans.

She must not know much about men. I keep the thought to myself. I promise to get back to her after I find the tomatoes.

But she pushes it. “What about their feminine side?” she says. I hoot. “What? Oh, I get it. Like all those times when they write love notes and bring home dinner and put roses on your pillow at night?” She pauses, mutters, “Well, I guess we can scratch that thought.”

She’s quick, bounces back with, “How about their conversational skills?” Am I really hearing this? I knee-jerk a reply, “Oh sure, those times when they listen to everything you say and remember nothing. Is this what you mean?"

She reconsiders her position. “Yes, I guess there are times….” Her words trail off.

Wistfully, she says, “Don’t men always remember important dates, like anniversaries and birthdays?” Since she opens this can of worms, I can’t resist saying, “Of course, just like your husband does, right?” I hit a nerve. I think her husband will have a bad night.

“You’re on a roll. What else?” I say. She hesitates, so I push my luck. “How about the fun you have when your husband goes shopping with you?” I hear her sharpening the knife.

I dig my hole a little deeper. “Here’s a ‘neat’ idea for you,” I say. “Let’s write about how men always compliment women on their clothes, shoes and coiffure?” The silence is eerie. I feel a noose tightening around my neck. Somewhere a crowd of women is cheering.

“Got anymore ‘neat’ ideas?” I ask. Her response is vicious and unprintable.

“You there?” I ask. Her weak voice responds, “Perhaps I really don’t know men after all.” I wanted to say, “I told you so,” but before I could she leaps back to life and shouts, “How about an article on flower arrangements?” I slam the phone down.

The store lights flicker, the store is closing. I panic. What color is the label on the tomato can, red or white? I forget, purchase both.

Merits of men? There’s nothing redeeming about a man who can’t even find a can of tomatoes…..

Bud Hearn
August 4, 2011