...even unto the seventh generation. A half-year later, in the summer, I was again in Fayetteville. My book had been written and was at the publisher's. I hoped to have it in hand by Christmas. On the second day of my stay, I repeated my early morning ritual when in the area of my early years. I was up and out and off to the pool hall. Kathy seemed truly glad to see me. I talked her up about the book, without mentioning my ghost and life in general.
"You got married, yet?" I teased her.
She didn't blink. "And ruin a great romance? Get real, writer. You don't write them cheap, awful, mushy, unreal romance novels, do you?" She laughed from deep inside, shaking as she went to fix my order. I thought with good humor, 'Well maybe I do write just that.' About nine o'clock I made my way to the Rose Hill Cemetery. The heat of summer had not arrived yet. It was pleasant, maybe 70 degrees, with a nice breeze. I'd lost count of my pilgrimages to Mr. Jones' grave, but I'm sure they were in the double digits. Since he'd inspired and helped me to write what I knew would soon be acclaimed as the next 'great American novel,' I felt obliged to offer him a salute. When the book came out, I was pretty sure I'd be persona non grata in my hometown.
***
Back in 1966, I had received the history medal for the graduating class at Central High. Before that, in May of '63 I had served as a Page in the U.S. House of Representatives, appointed by Mr. Jones' successor, Congressman Joe L. Evins. I have always suspected Mr. Evins' office did faulty research and thought I was one of the Mansfields who mattered in the county power structure. We were the other branch. Our aspirations were survival and salvation, not prominence and power.
My exposure to the United States Congress and Washington, D.C., that magical May when I was thirteen, had infected me with a lifetime interest in history, politics, and ideas. I suppose my being the recipient of that history medal in '66 had been a commission of sorts for me to do something that would reckon with my home county's history. I had, and it was at the publisher's. It surely was not dry history. Actually, it may be more alive than I can stand.
***
As I made my way past the old and new gravestones to the high ground, up against West Washington Avenue, I noticed a nice, big, shiny, red, Dodge Ram truck parked underneath the ancient oak tree near Mr. Jones' grave. I took note of the license plate-Texas-as I stopped behind it. Then I saw him as he moved from behind Mr. Jones' stone. Tall and big with a swarthy completion he was about my age with gray hair cut in an old fashioned flat top. He came toward me as I got out of my truck.
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A half-year later, in the summer, I was again in Fayetteville. My book had been written and was at the publisher's. I hoped to have it in hand by Christmas. On the second day of my stay, I repeated my early morning ritual when in the area of my early years. I was up and out and off to the pool hall. Kathy seemed truly glad to see me. I talked her up about the book, without mentioning my ghost and life in general.
"You got married, yet?" I teased her.
She didn't blink. "And ruin a great romance? Get real, writer. You don't write them cheap, awful, mushy, unreal romance novels, do you?" She laughed from deep inside, shaking as she went to fix my order. I thought with good humor, 'Well maybe I do write just that.' About nine o'clock I made my way to the Rose Hill Cemetery. The heat of summer had not arrived yet. It was pleasant, maybe 70 degrees, with a nice breeze. I'd lost count of my pilgrimages to Mr. Jones' grave, but I'm sure they were in the double digits. Since he'd inspired and helped me to write what I knew would soon be acclaimed as the next 'great American novel,' I felt obliged to offer him a salute. When the book came out, I was pretty sure I'd be persona non grata in my hometown.
***
Back in 1966, I had received the history medal for the graduating class at Central High. Before that, in May of '63 I had served as a Page in the U.S. House of Representatives, appointed by Mr. Jones' successor, Congressman Joe L. Evins. I have always suspected Mr. Evins' office did faulty research and thought I was one of the Mansfields who mattered in the county power structure. We were the other branch. Our aspirations were survival and salvation, not prominence and power.
My exposure to the United States Congress and Washington, D.C., that magical May when I was thirteen, had infected me with a lifetime interest in history, politics, and ideas. I suppose my being the recipient of that history medal in '66 had been a commission of sorts for me to do something that would reckon with my home county's history. I had, and it was at the publisher's. It surely was not dry history. Actually, it may be more alive than I can stand.
***
As I made my way past the old and new gravestones to the high ground, up against West Washington Avenue, I noticed a nice, big, shiny, red, Dodge Ram truck parked underneath the ancient oak tree near Mr. Jones' grave. I took note of the license plate-Texas-as I stopped behind it. Then I saw him as he moved from behind Mr. Jones' stone. Tall and big with a swarthy completion he was about my age with gray hair cut in an old fashioned flat top. He came toward me as I got out of my truck.
Current Rating: 2.6/5 (264 votes cast)
Doak Maddox Mansfield
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