Just Words

We’ve had more children come through our doors than we can count. We don’t have the biggest house or the fanciest house. It’s not in a gated community and she’s not multilevel. We never put in that swimming pool and she’s always under some kind of remodel or upgrade.

The children of the neighborhood and the friends of our children have always been able to come and go freely and there’s always cold water and drinks in the fridge. And like we tell them all the time… we eat almost every day around here, so be sure and stop by. We would always cook for six, but never really knew if we were going to have an extra mouth to feed. Someone would stop by or one of the kids would have a friend with them. We loved them with food… and we love to cook.

There is one young man that grew up with my son… he’s a tall and well mannered boy who seems to know everyone in town. He is easy to have a conversation with and has an opinion on just about everything. But he never eats anything we prepare. He will show up unannounced and plop down on the couch just to visit and soon he will be on his way. He would show up even when my son wasn’t home, and we always welcomed him. Through our conversations I found out that his parents don't tell him they love him and he never says the words to them either... he assumes they don't need to because they know how each other feels. And besides, he told me, they’re just words…

They’re just words…

When his visit is over and after he has refused anything to eat, I always pat him like he’s my boy and tell him I love him. We laugh about it and he always pauses and nods his head with acknowledgement.

My son has moved out but we still see his friends. Some may come by for the laughter. Some may come by for advice… some may come by for a good meal. And some may come by for just the words…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

On the Tracks

Recently, my drive to work takes me through our town in the early hours of the day. I make my way past the last stop lights and follow the horizon into the countryside and into the peach country of Edgefield County.

There are several small communities on the way. Fragile, forgotten businesses still hold to the past. Their windows are full of old advertisements… the worn storefronts all in need of a fresh coat of paint. I pass a handful of gas stations that serve breakfast and lunch for the migrant workers… they sit and stand in groups of three or four and speak in whispers.

The first week of my travels found me looking for the details of the journey. I drove through an area where there are peach orchards on both sides of the road… some fields with trees overflowing with ripe peaches and some fields holding their buds for a late summer crop. And that’s when I saw him… he was as dark as the night and stood on the side of the road. He was looking to the sound of my Jeep and I felt his eyes as I passed him by. I didn’t think much of him other than he seemed too close to the road…

Over the next few days, I looked for him and he would appear without warning in the tall grass near the road. Every time I saw him he was nearer to town and I realized he was on the move… but always looking at every car that passed. He looked healthy… his ears flopped at the tips and he walked with purpose.

I bought a small bag of dog food that night and kept it in my front seat. I kept my eyes on the sides of the road all the way to my job-site, but I didn’t see him… I wondered where he was and if he was safe. After several days, I had given up when I spotted him fifteen miles nearer to home. He was on the tracks…

I slowed to the side of the road and pulled his dog food from under my tools on the floorboard. The yellow bag was now wrinkled and worn, but it held his meal. He looked up as I approach... I gave him my nicest, puppy-talk voice and shook the bag of food. He stopped to study me. His eyes were sharp and steady and I could feel his anxiety. I opened the bag and made a pile on the worn and weathered timbers… some of the food spilled onto the gravel and I paused to pick it up.

He watched me intently as I moved back toward the road. I spoke in soft tones to encourage him as he lifted his head to smell the air. I sat quietly as he ate… the morning fog fell on us like a blanket.  We both made our way toward our destination just a little happier… I headed south on old highway 23 and he headed north on a path to a new day.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman 

Twice to the Right

I went to high school orientation for two of the children yesterday. There were scores of teachers and coaches, administrators and volunteers on the ready for us. We clamored into the crowded parking lot in this unfamiliar plot and headed into the spacious entrance to the newest high school in the state.

There once was a secret shortcut between two major roads that took hurried drivers to and from our little community. If you took a quick detour during the right time of day, it would save you at least fifteen minutes of driving time. Corley Mill Road is a narrow lane, covered on both sides by ancient oak and pine trees. The Corley family has owned the acreage on both sides of the road for generations and any attempt on purchasing a beautiful scenic lot had always been met with polite resistance… until now.

The designers of River Bluff High School took the history of the area and the tranquility of the rolling hills into mind when they designed the footprint of the school. It sits quietly behind thickly wooded acreage and is accessed down a double-lane drive bordered by a red brick and limestone columned entrance. The school opens up past a clearing in the trees and beckons the eyes toward its modern architecture.

It is the largest high school in the state and is on the cusp of technology. There will be no excuse for the lack of the best education and any athlete will be proud of the state-of-the-art facilities it will provide for generations to come. I walked into the gym and felt the same way I did when I peered around the double, metal doors in my old high school for the first time. Robert E Lee High was the biggest school I had ever walked into and every area was a new adventure for the senses.

My first day of high school was intimidating. The block walls of the hallways were freshly painted and the floors were clean and polished. The halls were lined with locker after locker… there was a subtle roar of voices from as far as my eyes could see and the clanking sound of the lockers opening and shutting still sits in my mind. I had two combination locks… both had the same combination. I had practiced opening them up the night before… saving the combination to memory. My books would be safe behind the spinning dial.

I found my locker with its fading metal number and lifted the lever to hear that now familiar slide behind its louvered cover. It was clean except for a dusting of rust in the back corners and I piled my textbooks inside… first in a flat stack and then standing up with the spines facing me.  I closed it shut with a hollow clank and slid my lock into the chrome handle.

I would follow the same pattern, day after day and year after year. My locker would soon be filled to capacity with paper and notebooks. It held love letters and pencil bags… binders and socks, gym clothes and a brown paper bag for lunch.

My kids don’t have lockers. The school is filled with interactive, flat screen monitors and computer work stations. They carry their books in the memory of their iPads. They are moving ahead of us in technology, but they may be missing some of the little things… like spinning their lock twice to the right before landing on the first number or finding a note secretly tucked inside of a messy locker.

    

                                                                         Shannon R Killman

600 Calhoun

She anchors this corner like she has since 1898. Once she was clean and straight… she was fresh and a tribute to the block of this bustling rural town. The country railway system made its way through Johnston, SC and the surrounding communities. With it came the materials and supplies that were once only accessible through horse and wagon. And with it came growth of the small town.

The storefront building faced the railway. It was the first large construction project in town. All of the storefront shops were tied together in one building. There is a common attic space that spans the entire block… and a common crawl space.  All of the timbers were cut locally from long leaf pine trees that were a century old at the time. The floor joist beams are a full and strong and after a century have become dense with ancient pine sap.

I ventured into the attic through a roughly cut access hole in the majestic twelve foot ceiling. I pulled myself past the wooden ceiling that was nailed to the heavy ceiling joists… it had darkened with time and the old hand brushed lacquer finish had pebbled to an orange peel texture… the ceiling boards were all that held the weather from the inside of the building. The high ceilings held the heat of the summer and swept it away with small porthole windows near the tops of the heavily plastered walls.

The attic held the secrets of time. A thin layer of black dust held onto every crevice of the space. It was a mix of ancient dust and the escaped black smoke of the wood stove that was in use for decades. The heavy hand driven nails pulled the raw timbers together and held them as they aged and cured in place. They stood as a testament to the workers and craftsmen that hammered her into shape.

The first occupant of 600 Calhoun supplied the community with grain and seed. The farmers of the surrounding areas would come through the double windowed front doors and were greeted with enthusiasm. Throughout the fifty plus years housing a feed and seed store, small cracks in the wooden plank floors left seed chaff scatted on the dry ground beneath. 

A teenager left for the Armed Services and returned to town a grown man. He had arms strong and wide… the townspeople dubbed him “Rock”. In the 1950’s Rock purchased the corner building. He worked busily on radio tubes that powered the world with sound through radios. He had a booming business. He held government contracts that kept him busy for many years. It was said that in the late evenings in the quiet nights, a steady flash of lights could be seen from deep within the store… reflecting from his electric tools onto the white walls and into the sleepy street.

Time and technology took its toll on his business so he leased the front of his building to a young lady who sold beads and flowers. She had colorful posters and incense. She taught macramé classes and sold little round sunglasses. It is said that when the modern music from her record player would change from one song to another, you could hear faint music playing from the back of the building… soft music from days gone by.

Electronic transistors rapidly took the place of vacuum and radio tubes. The contracts slowed and Rock felt the years upon him. He sold the building to a young couple with dreams of making it a restaurant. And they did. They sold hot coffee at the counter and had peach pie in the warmer. They sold the restaurant after several years and the front of the building was transformed into a bar.

It was a happy place. The glasses were new and clean. The smiles of the owners were there to greet you when you came through the front door. They played country music and made mixed drinks with shaved ice. People of town would come in to enjoy themselves… they were looking for a place to laugh and to forget the hard work of the day and of the week. But after some time the glasses weren’t as shiny as they once were… the walls were darkened with nicotine. Smiles were replaced with saddened stares and tired eyes. And time dragged on…

Our building felt the stress of time and the strain of layers of paint… the addition of walls of separation. Wires and switches were added, holes were drilled in her rafters for plumbing, layers of flooring stacked upon each other and cracking plaster had been ignored or covered over with paneling. Moisture took its toll on the floors and on the roof. She watched the owners and renters come and go… they added weight to her walls and weight to her soul. Her foundations were settling and the mortar in her brick joints were failing… she looked to her past… and she yearned for a future.

We walked through her front doors and could feel her history. Layers of time pulled at the weight of the hinges and the dust of years of neglect fell upon our eyes. And we smiled. And then we planned. We felt her acceptance. We pulled down the out of place walls and trim. We stripped the ceilings of tile from decades past. We patched her walls and lifted her foundations. We cleaned the attic and swept away the years. We hauled off truck loads of debris.

And we could feel her relief. Her doors moved free of rust. Laughter fills her spaces. Fresh paint smooths her walls now. Her new roof holds out the water from the skies. Insulation soothes her attic as never before. Fresh tile fills the kitchen floors and light fills her ceilings. Fresh, cool air circulates like never before and she breaths in full breaths. And she feels her purpose. And she will have a new family for generations…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman