Immediance

Greetings Dear Reader,

Today is International Story Telling Days.  I have chosen to offer one of the stories from one of my books.  Feel free to let me know what you think.

Sometimes the lessons you learn make no sense at all until they save your life.  Evan’s Mill had not been one for thirty years.  All that lingered of the old gristmill on the shore was a concrete walled basement and an old chimney.  The massive skeletal remains of the iron and wooden wheel lay part way on its side in an eddy pool of the Flint River.  The wheel sat buried to a quarter of its depth in the red mud and brown silt that formed the bed of the eddy.  It stuck out of the water at an angle that gave the appearance that it had just detached itself from the mill and was still in the process of falling over onto its side.

My Grandfather had often taken me fishing on the Flint River.  We would arrive an hour before daybreak and breakfast on cold biscuits with pear preserves and pecan pie.  All of this we washed down with cold milk that was delivered weekly from his north Georgia farm.  Those were some of the best outdoor breakfasts I have ever had.  He always reminded me that we would both be in trouble if my Grandmother found out that he fed me pecan pie for breakfast.

Truth be told, my Grandmother knew what we took.  It was no coincidence that there was always a fresh pecan pie on the mornings we set out for fishing.  Neither was it a mistake that she made a double batch of biscuits and too much country fried steak the night before for dinner.  She loved me and loved making sure I was well fed.

After our regal repast, began the serious fishing.  The river yielded up its bounty of Bream, Catfish, and the occasional Trout or Bass.  My favorite place to fish on the river was in the bracken under the old mill wheel.  I lost many lures, spinners, hooks, and worms to the undergrowth that surrounded the rusting and rotting remains of the old iron banded wheel.  The reward was that I also caught some very large Bass and Brim from that hole. 

Just above the eddy pool was a long cascade of smooth river rocks that were perfect for sliding and swimming.  I was sure that God had spent every day since creation using the river to hone those rocks to a smoothness that perfectly suited my backside.  As long as I stayed far away from my Grandfather’s fishing zone, I could swim and slide as much as I desired.  I think it gave him great joy to watch me slide down the rushing water cascade into the pool.  He always brought dry clothes for me when we went to the Flint River.  His greatest desire was that I learn to love the outdoors, not that I love it exactly the way he did.

Being an eight-year old boy means that when the fish are not biting, boredom sets in quickly.  I learned early on that if I wanted to, my Grandfather would pack it in and find a new place to fish.  I had learned also that what he loved was to find a place and just wait for the fish to figure out he was there to catch them. 

During these times when I became reluctant to wait on the appetites of lazy August fish, I would play around the chimney and basement of the mill.  A set of cement block stairs descended into the open dank basement.  I would climb down the stairs into the cool dampness to escape the heat of Georgia’s Dog Days. 

The cinder block cave was filled in one corner with flotsam and jetsam from a long forgotten flooding.  The top half of an old pecan tree sat atop the pile of debris giving life and shelter to a thick growth of moss and lichen.  Amidst the collection of natural and manmade discards were also the remains of an old hornet’s nest, a two fence posts still mated by two lengths barbed wire, and an old wooden Coca-Cola® crate.  I am sure the trouble emerged from this collection of things past to threaten my near future.    

Often I would take my lunch of pimento cheese sandwiches on Wonder Bread®, homemade dill pickles, and some form of snack cake, to sit on the cool cement and enjoy the peacefulness of the cellar.  I had grown to consider it my personal domain.  I would often fall asleep and doze away the afternoon there.  It was a place where I felt that I alone ruled and nothing could touch me.

This thinking shattered one late afternoon in August.  I had done my best to fish all morning, but the day had started out suffocatingly hot and so humid you could not always tell where the river stopped and the air started.  Late summer in Georgia is the equivalent to living in a sauna set on high and with no off switch.  My Grandfather sat peacefully on the gnarled above ground root of his favorite fishing oak impervious to the August assault of dripping heat.  The river called to me earlier than usual, promising relief from the tepid air.  After fighting the current for a few hours and growing tired of the mud and slime in the river, I grabbed the bag with my lunch in it and headed for the mill basement to dry out and rest. 

My Grandfather repeated his usual admonition to be careful and to watch where I stepped.  I descended the stairs and headed for a damp corner of the mill where the sun was shining down and there was potential to be both out of the heat and still warm and comfortable.  I sat in the sunshine, leaning against the cool damp stone to eat my lunch.  My Grandmother had included some of her homemade, spiced pickled peaches and today’s dessert was a Nutty Bar®.  I ate my lunch, imagining that I was consuming a sovereign's feast in a vast stone throne room.

After eating I lay back and closed my eyes, seeing all of my knights and servants in my mind as they worked hard to meet my every need.  As was my habit at this time, I dozed off to sleep away the heat of the afternoon in the cool basement.  It was the way in which I was awakened that I hope will never be repeated.

My sleep was interrupted by the sound of my Grandfather calling urgently in a stage whisper for me not to move.  His tone was the one he used to let me know that he meant business.  I had learned very early in life that failure to heed that tone meant that he would reluctantly but efficiently deal out punishment.  This punishment took the form of a spanking followed by a long lecture on the importance of immediate obedience, or “Immediance” as he called it.

Today he whispered over and over, “Aramis do not move.  Aramis do not move.  Wake up, but do not move.” 

As my mind swam up from its dream state to consciousness, it registered to my senses that something was very wrong.  I felt weighted down as if someone had piled a large sack of potatoes in my lap.  My first instinct was to wiggle my legs, but trust in my Grandfather kept me from moving.

Again his voice, insistent but gentle admonished me, “Do not move.  Be as still as when we deer hunt. Be sure not to move.”

I carefully opened my eyes and almost jumped up anyway.  Only my Grandfather’s constant insistence that I remain still kept me from leaping away from what I saw.  Only my immediate obedience, my “Immediance," saved my life. Curled in lazy loops on my lap, sunning himself and enjoying my body heat, was a twenty-two pound, twelve foot long, Canebrake Rattlesnake. 

Gripped in the iron fist of fear, my mind demanded that I leap up and run at once. Only my Grandfather’s insistence that I not move kept me still.  He kept quietly talking to me as he approached the snake.  I can still clearly see the moment when his liver-spotted hand was inches from the snake’s head and the snake, sensing his presence, awakened.  It quickly coiled itself, still on my legs, and began shaking its eleven-button rattle thunderously.  The sound of its rattles reverberated off the blank stone walls in the basement creating the effect that there were hundreds of rattlesnakes angrily shaking their tails in warning. 

Just as I was reaching the point where I could no longer sit still, a new thunder shattered the sound of the twitching rattles.  My eyes, fixed on the snake, took in every frame of the action.  Just before the thunder rang through the damp basement, I saw the reptile draw his head back to strike at my Grandfather.  His movement was an intentional act to draw the serpent’s attention toward him and to protect me. 

In the moment before the beast lunged for Grandfather, the snake’s head shattered and the thunder erupted, reverberating against the stone walls.  At once, the beast crumpled, headless, onto my lap and the floor of the cellar still writhing and twitching.  Although it was dead its rattles thrummed on hauntingly for a few seconds.  My Grandfather had shot the rattlesnake with the pistol he always carried when we went into the woods. 

Instantly he was at my side, brushing away the remains of the snake and comforting me.  He eased down next to me, seeing that I was visibly shaken by the event, and put his strong arms around me.  We both sat there in the sun allowing its warmth to soothe our tension.  He was never a man of many words, but this time he spoke. 

“You did good son.  You practiced ‘Immediance.'  You need to put on some clean dry clothes and I think there might be some of that pie left in the car.”  That said, he stood, picked up the body of the snake, and headed for the stairs.  I watched in wonder as his old frame, still sinewy strong easily lifted the large snake.  Even when he used his strength there was a measure of grace and gentleness to his movement.  That image of him; a strong and loving protector of his grandson is how I always see him in my mind. 

Just at the top of the stairs, framed in the shimmer of the late afternoon sun, he looked down at me and smiled.  For an instant he was neither old nor weakened by his years.  That moment showed me what he must have been as a young police officer standing against the night for his city.

“Come on son, we should collect our gear and head for home.  I caught a few Bream while you were resting.  They need to be cleaned and put up for later.  Tonight I will teach you how to clean a snake. We will eat this guy for dinner and scare some religion into your Grandmother.”  All the way home we plotted how we would do just that.

Wishing you joy in the journey,

Aramis Thorn

Mat 13:52 So Jesus said to them, "That is why every writer who has become a disciple of Christ’s rule of the universe is like a home owner. He liberally hands out new and old things from his great treasure store."