"Old Red"- (The Red River: on one side is Texas and on the other Oklahoma.)

 

I remember crossing the Red River with granddad

From Texas into Oklahoma

 

(When you catch the sun shining just right on that river, you can see

Why it’s named “The Red River”; the Red banks seem to glisten in the morning sun)

 

Out to a farm to pick watermelons

In the arid Oklahoma sun

Mosquitoes and chiggers,

Wasps that seemed the size of my young fist

Buzzing and flitting passed my head,

As sweat poured down

The bridge of my nose

And formed little puddles

In the red dirt

 

Loading the back of the little Ford truck

‘Til the tire wells

Just nearly rested on the tops of the tires

With the green melons

Piled up near the top of the cab,

A cubby hole near the front

Of the bed for me to ride,

So I could tap the glass if anything happened on the way

Back to gramps’ produce stand

Beneath the big pecan tree

Across the street from gramma’s church

 

(Sometimes the pastor would be inside playing piano

The lazy, almost honky tonk strains of “Amazing Grace”

Flowing out of the open doors and into the waiting street

Filling my head and ears with sweet serenity

In the heat

Of a Red River Valley summer day)

 

 

 

Sometimes I feel as if that red dirt and black mud of my youth

Is ingrained into my pores from so many days buried elbow deep

 

Diggin’ ‘taters,

Cuttin’ okra,

Pickin’ melons,

 

I see myself (an older lad, by then) in gramma’s backyard

Shaking the little pecan tree, picking up the paper hulls and eating

‘Til I felt I may pop

 

And indeed, until I made myself sick on them

(The funny thing is, pecans aren’t near as good coming back up)

 

Filling up a paper sack to take to gramma,

So she could make a pecan pie

 

Oh! The glorious smell!

 

The taste of a piping hot pecan pie, all gooey and sweet

Filling up my mouth with all those wonderful, warm sensations

 

I see Pa-Pa grabbing a mean old rooster and ringing his neck

 

That night, there was chicken and dumplings on the table

 

Red beans,

Green Onions,

Fried okra,

Squash,

And cornbread

 

(Along with what was left of that pecan pie)

 

Yes, sometimes I know that Red Dirt

Is still in my pores

I FEEL it there;

I can still taste the faint hint of it

In the okra

And red beans

 

I can remember the grittiness of it

Against the roof of my mouth

And in my nostrils,

Sticking to my sweaty face

In a reddish paste as I walked to

Kincaid’s General Store in the burning sun

To buy a Peach Nehi and a Peanut Rounder

With the two dollars I had earned from Pa-Pa for helping him

 

Diggin’ ‘taters

Cuttin’ okra

And pickin’ melons

 

Ahhhh, yes!!!

That red dirt is part of me

And I wouldn’t change that for anything!!!