the field.
I touched his arm. “Moe?”
“There’s Papa. Him and the younguns, they’re most likely looking for me.” He watched them but didn’t move to leave. He heaved a despondent sigh, pushed back his hat so that the brim just barely shadowed his forehead, and looked at me. “I got fired last night, Cassie. I got fired.”
“Fired? What for?”
He turned as if to tell me, but then Mr. Turner saw us and started our way with three of Moe’s brothers. “Look, don’t say anything ’bout this, all right? Ain’t the right time. Want to get another job first . . . a better job ’fore I tell my papa. Don’t want him worrying.”
“All right.”
The dimples returned. “Thanks,” he said as his father stretched out his arms to him.
I greeted Mr. Turner and the Turner boys then, as the church bell began to ring summoning folks in for the funeral, made my way through the crowd to find Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. I found them standing by the truck with the boys, Cousin Hugh and Cousin Sylvie, and after taking the time to hug and kiss them in greeting, we all headed for the church to say our last good-byes to the Reverend Charles Gabson.
Reverend Gabson had always been a preacher of tumultuous hellfire and brimstone sermons that went on and on. Today all the ministers who had gathered were obviously attempting topay adequate tribute to the reverend by preaching in the same long-winded fashion. The services seemed to go on forever. Finally we were dismissed from the church, and we followed the pallbearers up the trail that led to the graveyard. There, more words were spoken, and Reverend Charles Gabson was at last laid to rest.
Throughout the services there hadn’t been many tears. Reverend Gabson had been dearly loved, but nobody much was crying about his passing on. He had lived a good many years, and the Lord had called him home; that was the way of life. Folks had mourned him for two days, including an all-night wake. Respects had been paid, and now life got on.
The day took on a festive air. Having come the distance, everybody now took the opportunity to visit. What with the miles between Pinewood Ridge and the Little Rosa Lee, Smellings Creek and the town of Strawberry, a lot of folks hadn’t seen each other since the Revival in August, and most likely would not be gathering again in such numbers until the next Big Meeting. So folks told good-natured stories about Reverend Gabson, laid out bowls of food on the backs of wagons and truck aprons, laughed and joked and talked, and had themselves a good time.
Nobody left.
After we ate, the boys and I stood near the well listening to Clarence talk about life in the Army. He hadn’t even mentioned Sissy. He told a story about his sergeant and how he had already gotten on his wrong side by questioning an order he had been given. His punishment had been spending one whole night digging holes, filling them, then digging them up again.
“Well, I know one thing,” said Little Willie, as Clarence laughed at his own story, “Army sure ain’t for me.”
“Will be, they call you,” predicted Clarence.
“They didn’t call you,” I said. “You in the Army because you want to be.”
“Well . . . they’d’ve called me sooner or later. Sergeant said they getting mighty serious ’bout that war over there in Europe. Said we ain’t in it yet, but we gonna be.”
“Yeah,” Moe quietly agreed. “What with all this talking war, I been thinking maybe I’ll do like Clarence and go ’head and join up myself.”
I shot him an incredulous look. “What? Boy, what are you talking about?”
Clarence laughed. “He wanna get sharp like me! You like these uniforms, too, don’t you, Moe?”
Moe shrugged. “Be twenty-one my birthday come up, and I’m gonna have to go register anyways. Was just giving thought to when I do, I’d just go ’head, join up, and get it over with.”
I questioned his sanity. “Are you out of your mind? You may get more
I touched his arm. “Moe?”
“There’s Papa. Him and the younguns, they’re most likely looking for me.” He watched them but didn’t move to leave. He heaved a despondent sigh, pushed back his hat so that the brim just barely shadowed his forehead, and looked at me. “I got fired last night, Cassie. I got fired.”
“Fired? What for?”
He turned as if to tell me, but then Mr. Turner saw us and started our way with three of Moe’s brothers. “Look, don’t say anything ’bout this, all right? Ain’t the right time. Want to get another job first . . . a better job ’fore I tell my papa. Don’t want him worrying.”
“All right.”
The dimples returned. “Thanks,” he said as his father stretched out his arms to him.
I greeted Mr. Turner and the Turner boys then, as the church bell began to ring summoning folks in for the funeral, made my way through the crowd to find Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. I found them standing by the truck with the boys, Cousin Hugh and Cousin Sylvie, and after taking the time to hug and kiss them in greeting, we all headed for the church to say our last good-byes to the Reverend Charles Gabson.
Reverend Gabson had always been a preacher of tumultuous hellfire and brimstone sermons that went on and on. Today all the ministers who had gathered were obviously attempting topay adequate tribute to the reverend by preaching in the same long-winded fashion. The services seemed to go on forever. Finally we were dismissed from the church, and we followed the pallbearers up the trail that led to the graveyard. There, more words were spoken, and Reverend Charles Gabson was at last laid to rest.
Throughout the services there hadn’t been many tears. Reverend Gabson had been dearly loved, but nobody much was crying about his passing on. He had lived a good many years, and the Lord had called him home; that was the way of life. Folks had mourned him for two days, including an all-night wake. Respects had been paid, and now life got on.
The day took on a festive air. Having come the distance, everybody now took the opportunity to visit. What with the miles between Pinewood Ridge and the Little Rosa Lee, Smellings Creek and the town of Strawberry, a lot of folks hadn’t seen each other since the Revival in August, and most likely would not be gathering again in such numbers until the next Big Meeting. So folks told good-natured stories about Reverend Gabson, laid out bowls of food on the backs of wagons and truck aprons, laughed and joked and talked, and had themselves a good time.
Nobody left.
After we ate, the boys and I stood near the well listening to Clarence talk about life in the Army. He hadn’t even mentioned Sissy. He told a story about his sergeant and how he had already gotten on his wrong side by questioning an order he had been given. His punishment had been spending one whole night digging holes, filling them, then digging them up again.
“Well, I know one thing,” said Little Willie, as Clarence laughed at his own story, “Army sure ain’t for me.”
“Will be, they call you,” predicted Clarence.
“They didn’t call you,” I said. “You in the Army because you want to be.”
“Well . . . they’d’ve called me sooner or later. Sergeant said they getting mighty serious ’bout that war over there in Europe. Said we ain’t in it yet, but we gonna be.”
“Yeah,” Moe quietly agreed. “What with all this talking war, I been thinking maybe I’ll do like Clarence and go ’head and join up myself.”
I shot him an incredulous look. “What? Boy, what are you talking about?”
Clarence laughed. “He wanna get sharp like me! You like these uniforms, too, don’t you, Moe?”
Moe shrugged. “Be twenty-one my birthday come up, and I’m gonna have to go register anyways. Was just giving thought to when I do, I’d just go ’head, join up, and get it over with.”
I questioned his sanity. “Are you out of your mind? You may get more
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