>On second thought, I don't think I'll be showing any work...
posted this a while back w/o a trip. nothing newer i will post
Brother Tom came out from the Tabernacle and onto the dirty, cold lawn. He faced West, standing in the Tabernacle's shadow, breathing the cold, chapped air. He stared over the cold lawn which rounded the Tabernacle and which—like a spreading oil leak—crept into the road's nearest ditch. And the Tabernacle, which had chipped, white wood siding and a tarred black roof, was mistakable for a ratty, two-car garage from the road. And Brother Tom smiled in its shadow but, restrainedly, felt a heated yearning sadness. Overtop were clear skies but it was very, very early, the fourth and last Saturday in October in 2004. And the morning was very, very shadowy. And then his moment's sadness and yearning had passed. And so, returned to his senses, he began counting out the bunch of plastic grocery bags he had swept-together from home.
"One's here," to himself: "And, and one ain't gonna do me Chief. One gonna rip on me Chief. One gonna rip on me spill ever'where Chief. But O.K., two's here I got, three…"
He had come out on word from old Brother J.D., who had rung him in the night telling him that he had best hurry come light and had best pick the fallen-off pecans up, before the boys got a hold.
The same ringing in the night came every year.
And the pecan grove was far from the Tabernacle, among prickly, rough growths and twigs. And the grove hedged the cold lawn's farthest line, which adjoined the Tabernacle's small plot to Fluellen's hundred-odd acres of limestone. If Fluellen's boys came for the fallen-off pecans then Brother Tom would go. And if they stopped him from going then he would pretend to be an idiot. But he and Fluellen's boys had never met under the grove so it was an act he prepared yearly, humiliatingly, but was lucky to have never performed.
"Woulda look at an eighth bag I got here Chief," down to his last few: "And here's my nine bag here Chief, my ten bag…"
And the same preparing in the cold came every year.
He had come to the Tabernacle since he lived in his mother's stomach. He had grown up with and loved everyone dutifully. Everyone. But he specially loved the sweet ladies among their small congregation—Missus Russell Missus Lawrence Missus Whitfield Missus Jackson—who every year would sweetly bake the pecans into pies for the rest. The sweet ladies would bring their pies to next week's supper and would set them carefully on their fold-out table. Setting them around boiled collard greens and slaw and skillets of cornbread and roast chicken and Lays and Cokes and fried chicken, takeout, pork roast. Setting them far apart unconsciously. Every year unconsciously. And, at least in Brother Tom's conception, their pies were loved and counted on so damn him were there one year of pecans left in the dirt or stolen away and not made pies of.
He bent at his waist toward a pecan.