About Me

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I'm an artist, an educator, Pastafarian and I write. I also will gamble on just about anything. And I like unusual juxtaposition, but I love my wife...and beer. This blog is observations from a funny old man who gets pissed off every once in a while. Oh, and I mispell alot.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Page 30




"That's a fact."
"But, if I'm not mistaken, he gave that man in the pickup truck some money."
"That was a loan, Missy.  And if Mr. Bowers can't pay it back in cash, he will work it off some how or the other.  Mr. Jefferson makes everybody who needs money repay him, and toil and sweat, when you think about it, is the same as cash.  He’s paid more than one boy or gal’s way through college, then when they graduated they had the choice of findin' a job payin' the money back or sweatin' it off by workin' for Jeremias.  All of his top management did that, then just stayed on.  All of his lawyers, accountants, etc., don’t just work for Jeremias.  They are his real friends don’t you see."
Before I could ask for clarification at such an astonishing revelation, we heard the singing.  Esther's face lit up in a wide smile.  More tears, tears of pure joy, filled her eyes and she made no attempt to wipe them away.
When Esther stood, so did I, both of us staring at the rise.  At first it was difficult to identify the dozens of small round shapes bobbing on the horizon, then the circles rose as that of the heads of children, lots of children.  They ranged in age from toddler to young adults.  Behind them came the adults.  The army of singers sang what sounded like an old Negro spiritual and the perfect harmony left no doubt but that it had been sung many, many times.

 There's no rain to wet you,
 Oh, yes, I want to go home.
 There's no sun to burn you,
 Oh, yes, I want to go home.
 Push along, believers,
 Oh, yes, we need to go home.
 There's no hard trials awaitin',
 Oh, yes, I want to go home.
 There's no whips a-crackin',
 Oh, yes, I want to go home.
 My brother on the wayside,
 Oh, yes, I gotta to go home.
 Push along, my sister,
 Oh, yes, I want to go home.
 Here there's no stormy weather,
 Oh, yes, we almost home.
 Push along, my brother,
 Oh, yes, Oh, yes, Oh, yes.

Sometimes only the male voices sang a verse, but with just the perfect timing the adults silenced themselves and the children were allowed to sing Oh, yes, I want to go home.  The next verse would be sung by female voices and then, sometimes only a solo soprano would intone the next verse. 
Small groups of people walked and repeated the exact same, presumed favorite verse, over and over.  The harmony was what one would expect from a host of angels descending from on high.  The sound echoed for miles.  It was one of the most moving events of my life.




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