This person was a river,
where I learned about livin’,
and fishin’.
This river went on and on,
bend after bend,
seemed to have no end.
This person’s words were the water,
poured out over me,
trapped in my ears.
Sometimes the waters were rough,
and other times it was glass.
The water grew slower over time,
but still ran deep through me.
I laid on the bank at the end of the river,
the water spoke to me,
and I spoke to it.
We talked about fishing,
and countless times spent together.
The river told me to be careful,
and watch out for gators.
Then the waters stopped,
to flow no more.
I never get to talk to the river anymore,
but its words still flow deep inside me.
The river was my great-grandfather,
my mentor,
and my friend,
Walter T. “Red” Clements.
2/1/1914~3/22/2009
Kyle W. Clements
Douglas scampered through the woods as fast as he young legs would take him. He jumped over fallen trees, and darted between palmetto bushes. Sometimes he would trip and fall, or get caught by one of the palmetto branches. None of this stopped him though, as he kept running full steam towards the town, knowing the danger that Andrew was in.
He passed Ms. Keedy’s cabin, and turned onto the dirt road. He was about two hundred yards away from the outskirts of town, and could see the flag flying in front of the post office.
When at last Douglas made it into town, he searched frantically for someone who could help Andrew. He looked in the restaurant but the men had already eaten and gone, it being past the lunch time hour. He next turned his search for help towards the Ackerman General Store, where some of the older men liked to sit and play checkers and cards.
Mr. George, the owner of the store, was outside sweeping the porch. Frank Bedford and Walter McAllister were also there playing checkers. Douglas ran up to the steps, breathing heavy from running.
“What can I do fer you Douglas?” asked Mr. George.
“Andrew…needs…helps…Misser George…fallen ins…da riber…can’t gets out…current be too…strong…fer him” said Douglas, who gasped for air after each word.
“Andrew Cameron!” exclaimed Mr. George “where abouts is he?”
“Headed…toward…the…bridge.” Douglas replied, who was about to collapse from exhaustion.
“Frank! Walter! The Cameron boy is trapped in the river current. Quickly, we needs to go get him out before he gets near the gator nests. Them mama’s ain’t too pleasant this time of the season. Douglas, you stay here and rest, you have done good son” said Mr. George. He grabbed a rope from the store, and then he and the other two men headed towards the bridge.
The bridge was about a quarter mile south of the town, and the men hoped that Andrew hadn’t gotten carried past it yet. They had a quicker pace in their steps than normal, almost running at a full sprint, even though neither of them had run like that in a coon’s age.
“Hang in there Andrew, help is on the way” hollered Clyde at his buddy, who struggled to free himself from the grips of the current.
“I hopes so Clyde, I dunno how long I can do this fer”
Andrew kicked hard to keep himself above water. His overalls weighed him down, making him use more strength to keep his head up. He searched desperately for a low branch or a log of some sorts that he could grab onto, but no such luck.
The current carried Andrew around the bend, and both he and Clyde could see the bridge now. If Andrew passed under the bridge, he would be in grave danger. He came closer and closer to the bridge, his hope fading as his strength was about to give up.
Just as he was about to reach the bridge, Mr. George and the other men came running across it. Frank took the rope and tossed one of the ends into the water.
“Grab the rope Andrew, grab the rope” he hollered out at the boy.
Andrew flailed and struggled towards the rope and reached out to grab it, but missed. He began to drift under the bridge and away from the rope.
“Try again Andrew, don’t give up, just grab the rope and hold on” said Clyde, trying to encourage his friend to fight the water a little longer.
Andrew mustered up all the strength he had left in his arms and legs and fought against the current. He inched closer and closer to the rope. He reached out and touched the rope with his fingers, but still couldn’t grasp it. Finally, he made one last burst towards the rope and was able to grab on.
“Hang on Andrew” yelled Mr. George “pull men, pull like a mule”
The old men pulled and pulled, till Andrew was close enough where Walter could grab a hold of him, and pull him safely on the bridge.
When Andrew was finally safe on the bridge, Mr. George asked him, “so why exactly did you go swimming in the roughest part of the river?”
“Well sir, we all wanted one of them there cold soda bottles, and figured if we came down and caught some fish, we could sells them and make enough to buy each of us a bottle. That’s when I felled in.”
“Humm, trying to make a little fish market aye? Well did you catch anything boy?” asked Walter.
“Why yus sir, we’s sure did” replied Andrew.
“Well if y’all bring them back into town, I’ll buy the three of you boys each a soda bottle.”
“That would be mighty nice of you sir.”
With that, Clyde headed off to get the fish and the fishing poles. Andrew and the men returned to the store, and waited there for Clyde to return. Douglas was still laid out on the porch when they got back into town, trying to recuperate from running so hard through the woods.
When Clyde finally returned to town, he turned the fish over to Walter, and Walter purchased each boy a tall, cool, Coca-cola. The boys drank their sodas in silence, fully wrapped up in the bubbly fizz as it touched their tongues. They all realized what all they had been through to earn those soda bottles, and weren’t about to let anything interrupt them.
This was sent in an e-mail to me. I found it to be well written and deserving to be shared:
“ORANGE COUNTY ( CALIFORNIA ) NEWSPAPER-New Immigrants This is a very good letter to the editor. This woman made some good points.. For some reason, people have difficulty structuring their arguments when arguing against supporting the currently proposed immigration revisions. This lady made the argument pretty simple. NOT printed in the Orange County Paper………………. Newspapers simply won’t publish letters to the editor which they either deem politically incorrect (read below) or which does not agree with the philosophy they’re pushing on the public. This woman wrote a great letter to the editor that should have been published; but, with your help it will get published via cyberspace!
From: “David LaBonte” My wife, Rosemary, wrote a wonderful letter to the editor of the OC Register which, of course, was not printed. So, I decided to “print” it myself by sending it out on the Internet. Pass it along if you feel so inclined. Written in response to a series of letters to the editor in the Orange County Register:
Dear Editor: So many letter writers have based their arguments on how this land is made up of immigrants. Ernie Lujan for one, suggests we should tear down the Statue of Liberty because the people now in question aren’t being treated the same as those who passed through Ellis Island and other ports of entry. Maybe we should turn to our history books and point out to people like Mr. Lujan why today’s American is not willing to accept this new kind of immigrant any longer. Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of Europe to come to the United States, people had to get off a ship and stand in a long line in New York and be documented. Some would even get down on their hands and knees and kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws and support their new country in good and bad times. They made learning English a primary rule in their new American households and some even changed their names to blend in with their new home. They had waved good bye to their birth place to give their children a new life and did everything in their power to help their children assimilate into one culture. Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare, no labor laws to protect them. All they had were the skills and craftsmanship they had brought with them to trade for a future of prosperity. Most of their children came of age when World War II broke out. My father fought along side men whose parents had come straight over from Germany , Italy , France and Japan . None of these 1st generation Americans ever gave any thought about what country their parents had come from. They were Americans fighting Hitler, Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan . They were defending the United States of America as one people. When we liberated France , no one in those villages were looking for the French-American or the German American or the Irish American. The people of France saw only Americans. And we carried one flag that represented one country. Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about picking up another country’s flag and waving it to represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here. These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be an American. They stirred the melting pot into one red, white and blue bowl. And here we are with a new kind of immigrant who wants the same rights and privileges. Only they want to achieve it by playing with a different set of rules, one that includes the entitlement card and a guarantee of being faithful to their mother country. I’m sorry, that’s not what being an American is all about. I believe that the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900′s deserve better than that for all the toil, hard work and sacrifice in raising future generations to create a land that has become a beacon for those legally searching for a better life. I think they would be appalled that they are being used as an example by those waving foreign country flags. And for that suggestion about taking down the Statue of Liberty , it happens to mean a lot to the citizens who are voting on the immigration bill. I wouldn’t start talking about dismantling the United States just yet.
(signed) Rosemary LaBonte”
You wake-up earlier than you did yesterday. Even when you want to sleep in you find a way to motivate yourself to stand on your feet. A couple stretches here and there, futile attempts to wake your muscles up. Peering into the closet, you pick out your finest outfit. You get dressed and brush your teeth, comb your hair, and slosh on some of that cheap cologne you got for Christmas last year. It’s 9 o’clock; you grab your Bible and shake the dust off, and head off to Sunday school.
At 1 o’clock, you have a beer in one hand, remote in the other. A couple of choice words are being thrown around because the running back for your favorite team just fumbled on the two yard line. You sit there in your “Sexy Man” t-shirt, pouting at the events unfolding before you. Off to the store you go on a beer run, trying to drown away the thought of owing your co-worker $20 because you bet on the losing side. Some poor fool cuts you off on the way to the store; you immediately shoot him the bird, leaning your head out the window screaming profanities as if the man had said something about your mama.
So what just happened? Well the answer is very simple. You are a participant in a nationwide movement of Fake Christianity. From 9-12 on Sundays you are a saint. You’re a beacon to those who are lost, the Good Samaritan, the missionary, the deacon, the prayer-warrior, the choir member, etc. After 12 though, you’re as worldly as anybody else. Don’t worry about it though, like I said, it’s a nationwide thing.
It’s in every church across the USA. Some people are really good at it too. Every now and then they will make a trip down the aisle, and they will make sure everyone sees them. They will have their own mini-revival down at the altar with the preacher, and tell other members of the church how God is just moving in their life at lunch.
What’s even more impressive is some of the leaders in the church being a part of this movement. They will get up on a Sunday morning, or a Wednesday evening, and preach their little pea-picking heart out. Don’t ask them any questions though, cause for these guys religion is only skin deep. The ones that went to a really good seminary school may be able to cook up a good enough sermons to pull the wool over the congregation’s eyes, but not all of them are that good.
So what can we do about Fake Christianity? Well at this point not much. If a storm comes through and tears a little town up and you wait ten years to help the people of that town, more than likely there won’t be any people left in the town to help. You see, years ago the church screwed up. Prayer and the Bible were taken out of schools, and the church did nothing to prevent it. From that point on it’s been downhill. If the church wants revival, the members of the church first need to revive themselves. Revival can’t happen in the midst of Fake Christianity, it just won’t happen.
Have you ever been driving down the road and seen a person that just makes you wanna pull over, get out of the car, and beat the tar out of them? I don’t know why it happens, but it happens to me a lot. It could be because people have no common sense. Take the person that pulls in front of a restaurant, parks the car in the middle of the driveway, and gets out of the car and goes inside. Meanwhile you are sitting behind them wondering whether the police would arrest you or give you a medal for beating the stupid out of that person. Sometimes these people do nothing to provoke you, but you still just wanna beat the heck out of that person. Who knows why this is, maybe it’s an American thing. I can’t imagine a French person wanting to beat someone up, they would just surrender.
