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

of Flowers and Rain

The dark skies pulled the light from the horizon and a heaviness made its way to us. We felt the trees move in their tops and they dressed us in the white flower petals of the crepe myrtle blossoms…

The skies were upon us in a rush... the trees released their lace under the weight of the downpour. The driveway was awash with rain and white flowers… trained into a track of moving waters.

We sat on the porch and listened and we inhaled the mist of water from the rooftop… the driveway spilled onto the sidewalk and ankle high water fought against the border grass.

And we waited for the calm…

                                                           

                                                            Shannon R Killman

Still Just a Boy

 

My son and I sat in the early evening on the front porch… summer was here and the warm breeze held us outside for a passing moment.

Cody has left our nest and is busy creating his own… he is consumed with the every day details of owning his new home and balancing his life.

We talked about the bills and we talked about plans for the future and we talked about work and family. He looked to the driveway and looked to the skies as we spoke. He is a man on the outside…

We sat in the quiet for a moment and he moved across my view… he moved with purpose and joy. And then I saw them too… the summer’s lightning bugs. They pulsed in and out of my eyes as I tried to follow their trek.

I watched Cody run through the grass with hands waving and eyes wide open… he jumped and gasped like he was still just a boy. And I remembered him in his youth with dew-drops of perspiration pooling on his cheeks as he chased the young summer’s lights…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

the Way to My Immortality

a note to my son-in-law Jake

I’ve spent my entire adult life looking after my children. I watched them come into this world and have spent every moment of their lives concerned upon their well being. I have cradled and hugged them… I have held their hands and watched them as they slept. I’ve cried with them and laughed with them. I wondered how there was any more room in my heart for each one after the other.

When they were young, I was involved in the every day things of their lives. I read to each one of them and tucked them into bed. I was there to help them dress and to cook for them and feed them. I was there to keep them safe and try to look to their future for them… it was all consuming.

As I got older, and the children became independent and didn’t need my direction, I felt like I was loosing something. It was as though I was loosing parts of myself… the parts of myself that they had added to me. I could only watch as they grew and hope that they had learned the proper ways of life.

As I watched my Grandparents age into their twilight, I saw my mortality. As I watch my parents follow the path of their parents I can feel my mortality. And I ponder upon the future.

And that’s when we found you. It wasn’t an accident... nothing is an accident. Natalie talked about you… her eyes were bright and full when she spoke your name. You made her happy… you took her breath. And she loved you… and we love you. There is always room in our hearts for another child… another son. And now I realize the way to my immortality. It will be through you…

Happy birthday son…
                                       Shannon R Killman                        

Still Young and Strong

My oldest memory of a man of my family was my Great-grandfather Baker. He was an immigrant from Germany. He was a hard working man. He stood strong with his family and watched the years bring children and grand children and great grand children to him.

I can only remember him in foggy snapshots of time. I was too young to understand why he could no longer speak. I would sit with Grandma Baker as she fed him soft food and watch him as he slowly chewed. He would smile with his eyes as I asked my grandma why he didn’t swallow. His old chair held him tall and thin. I remember the chirping of the wood as it rubbed against itself.

He was old… my grandfather aging and strong… my father seemed young and strong and I was still young.

My grandfather Killman was a hard working man. He raised his family and after a tragic accident, he raised his brother’s children as his own. I remember his laughter and also his stern words that confused me as a boy. He kept us guessing. He didn’t hold us tight like my grandmother did… but he told us he loved us and we knew.

Time was slow against him. I watched him grow thin. His face was smooth but time took his strength. At one time I had to reach up to hug his neck. In his last of years I would stand with him and hold him to my chest. He would tell me that he was old and he knew his time was coming.

My grandfather was old… my father aging and strong… I was young and strong and my children were still young.

My father has always been a man of men. He had the chest of a bull and the strength of two. I knew to always be on the ready… Dad would clamp his hand over my knee and make me squeal in laughter and pain. His hands were strong… his voice was strong. His opinions were strong. And when I look to the mirror, I see his face. Time is pulling on him now and we only talk about it in short conversation. He speaks of God and he speaks of forgiveness. He directs in the ways of love and patience…

My father seems old to me now… I am aging and strong… my children are still young and strong… and it continues…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Jackson Alexander Killman

You came into our lives and I wept with joy without shame.

Your eyes were full and open to your new world.

We were there to guide… we were there to direct.

We tried to say the right words.

And we watched you grow.

You continue to seek out new truths and look to the future.

You entertain us with your joy of life.

You direct your peers in the ways of God.

He is watching and knows your heart.

He is there to guide where man cannot.

                                                                        Shannon R Killman

                                                                       

                    1 Samuel 1:27-28

For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him. Therefore I have lent him to the Lord. As long as he lives, he is lent to the Lord.” And he worshiped the Lord there.