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Dovie touched the apron hem to her eyes and dabbed at gathering tears. She released it and the apron fell again, draping her cotton dress. Taking up the dish towel she wiped the last of the dinner plates. Her eyes were sorrowful. Still they displayed a quiet serenity. Dovie turned from the kitchen sink and tenderly regarded her sister-in-law.

Thelma sat near-motionless at the table. Soft catches in her breathing testified to sobs reluctant to go away. Her eyes were drawn, weary from the work of crying.

A fan in a distant room whirred rhythmically. Dovie lingered, treasuring the stillness here as a sacred thing. She moved slowly to the space behind Thelma’s chair. She rested her hands on the young mother’s shoulders. Dovie’s hands were weathered, not from age but from the Oklahoma field labor of earlier times.

Her lips moved silently in devotion, breathing only an occasional whisper.
Father, your peace.
Your peace, Father.
Her prayer seemed more a statement than a petition. An acknowledgement of nearness.

Thelma sensed the nearness. She let herself begin to settle into it. It was a nearness different than that of her sister-in-law’s gentle presence. She gave herself to it and it remained.
Into many years to come, beginning from this day, Thelma recalled Dovie’s closeness. And her quiet conversations with heaven – times of the presence. She savored the memories of her sister-in-law. She savored, even more, the presence.

Thelma’s account.

Dovie quietly came to me. Within moments of her hands being on my shoulders I felt differently. I was lighter. That awful sorrow, its horrible darkness lifted off me. There was peace. It was real, this feeling. I was calm. A sweetness came to the room. A rich Presence.

(Later. The day of the funeral) Walking to the gravesite I felt I was gliding along. I can’t explain. Like floating just above the ground. I was being carried. It was the same afterward, walking from the burial place. I never knew this kind of presence. And peace.

After a time Clyde and Thelma chose to move again to California. But only following another choice – a significant one each felt they must make.

©Jerry Lout 2015

Jack! Jack! O God.

The neighbor screamed wildly, again yelling the appeal. The young man pivoted. His eyes followed her gesture.
The canal!

Irrigation waters swept Jack’s young cousin downstream. The twenty year old ran two and a half blocks before catching up with little Bobby. He pulled him from the current and onto the canal bank. But Jack arrived too late. Three year old Bobby Lout was gone.

The young family had come to Phoenix from Berkeley for the climate. For the children’s health.

Clyde had long since atoned for his oversleeping bungle. His slim earnings as a plumber’s helper prepared them for a modest but happy welcome of their firstborn. Betty came within a year of Thelma’s pilgrimage West. Her little brother arrived three years later.

Thelma let his curly blond hair grow long. He charmed the family, neighbors, even strangers. Everyone adored Bobby.

Then asthma descended on the two children. The damp climate of the Bay area made the condition worse. Clyde considered the situation. They should move, he told Thelma.

His oldest sibling, Dovie, had settled in Arizona with her family. The Louts left for Phoenix. Clyde found a place to live not far from Dovie’s household. And in a reasonable time he had a job.

Then now, this crushing loss.

Bobby’s death lunged the family into grief. Thelma anguished over Bobby’s drowning so intensely it was questioned whether she would regain emotional soundness. Wailings gave way to sobs, then whimpers. Cycles kept alive with renewed sobbing, followed by long silences.

Limping is a thing that overtakes everyone in the race we call life. The death of a child, especially one’s own child, can bring devastating lameness. It cripples parents and siblings – at least temporarily – in ways not easily comprehended. Recovery from some horrors demands critical attention.

Crippling lameness calls for companionship. For authentic compassion. It calls for family – natural or otherwise.

Dovie lived nearby. A godsend.

©Jerry Lout 2015

Arriving at San Francisco Bay, Clyde Baxter sampled the faint taste of salt air. He slowly filled his lungs and considered the untimely passing of his parents. The White Plague (tuberculosis) destroyed their lungs.  The children received meager help from nearby relatives, themselves very poor. Clyde and his four older siblings were, otherwise, left to carry on alone.

He boarded a packed bus and jostled along with passengers of uncommon accents. He viewed their appearance and manners with a distant curiosity. While cities of the Bay supplied first-time visitors plenty of sights and sounds, Clyde remained focused.

Stories of California promised provision. And surely no job here would yield as paltry a wage as that of hoeing cotton back home. He hoped he was done with that job. He left school after tenth grade to labor under a punishing Oklahoma sun – for fifty cents a week.

Depression-era language crisply defines the word Hustle.  To live by one’s wits, making an effort to obtain money. Years later, referring to his days of job-hunting around the Bay, my dad remarked without bluster, “I hustled.”

He found work.

On the first day at his first job, he studied the shovel handed him. The foreman indicated a long single row of drainage pipes stretched on the ground. “Dig the trench twenty inches deep.”

Not long afterward Clyde found another job. He made less money than as a ditch digger – at first anyway.

Beginning as a plumber’s helper he gradually advanced to journeyman plumber and pipefitter. The skill fed his household for years.

Now – to save money and get some bus tickets to her. He and Thelma Christine were starting life together in a beautiful setting where land and waterways meet. He smiled at the thought of her last name.

Bay.

Imagining creatively,

Planning resourcefully,

Laboring energetically.

Admirable qualities all.

Life was hopeful. Hardships could wait.

©2015 Jerry Lout

Clutching her tan cardboard suitcase Thelma boarded the Greyhound bus. With her free hand she swept a film of dust from an empty seat. Dust. It was like a crazed intruder. Nothing seemed to deter it.

She settled in for the first leg of her journey. Unknowns lay ahead.  What was it like anyway? This Golden State?

Clyde kept his promise. He wired her travel money. He would meet her at the other end of the line.

She considered Clyde’s qualities. Like anyone he had shortcomings. But he kept his word. Her nervousness eased.  She was joining him soon just like he said. He’ll receive her with his wide smile and embrace.

The bus was on open road now. Thelma lowered her hands, linked her fingers over her midsection and looked out the window. One – two – three. She counted fence posts parading by.

An exodus of automobiles and trucks, some barely roadworthy, chugged westward. Most were bulging with Texans and Oklahomans – Dustbowl escapees. Every small town dotting the Mother Road received the caravan. And yielded it up some minutes later at the far end of Main Street. 

Her last ride rolled into East Bay’s station. Thelma eagerly studied faces of locals receiving their travelers. Where was Clyde? Lugging her suitcase she alighted. She scanned the area until it nearly emptied.

Fingering a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it she trudged off. The suitcase felt heavier.

Clyde hurried along the hilly streets. He was frantic and mortified. How could he have done it? How could a guy drift off to sleep like that – miss his girl’s arrival?

He turned a corner and saw her.  Her luggage shoulder sagged and her face was flushed.

On the trip she saw them racing toward each other. Laughter.

Taking the suitcase he awkwardly hugged her. He apologized. At the entry to their apartment he apologized again.

Clyde was a man of strong conscience.

Today it pummeled him.

© 2015 Jerry Lout

 He sprinted to the next line of railroad tracks. By now home lay miles behind him.

Clyde Baxter had reached the Texas Panhandle on his westward venture. There was no going back to Oklahoma. Nor of staying in the dust-plagued panhandle. Croplands were desperate for rain. A new term was even coined.  The assault was, indeed, transforming the plains into a dust bowl.

Increasing his speed along a moving string of box cars, he selected one and leapt aboard.

A handkerchief shielded his eyes somewhat from a blowing grime. A few more days of riding the rails and (he hoped) he could reach San Francisco Bay.

His body craved food but he hungered to find work even more. He resolved to press on, hoping to avoid the bulls (railroad police) along the way.

Clyde Baxter’s surname was Lout – the man whom I would later on call Daddy. Both his parents died before his seventh birthday.  Deprived in this way of parental care, it could be said he had a limp of sorts, disadvantages in life. Still he pushed ahead. He believed better fortunes were coming. He had something he hoped to really commit himself to. Rather someone.

How would she make her way safely to California – this trim Oklahoma girl – assuming  he could find work? He steadied himself and looked to the west again.

Resolve. It is a quality we see in those whose will is anchored in purpose, in meaning. Where meaning falters, resolve often weakens.  But meaning for Clyde, well, it meant something.

Further lessons about worthwhile things lay ahead for him. Some pleasurable, some in the middle of pain.

Our dad was one who instructed his children but seldom lectured. It’s said that some things are better caught than taught. He modeled qualities whose worth we could only later really appreciate.

This carries, for me, an immeasurable  meaning.

©2015 Jerry Lout