Hold ‘Er Newt, She’s a Rearin’!
I stared out the window of the westbound Greyhound at the countryside passing just outside my window. There were miles and miles of wide open farmland with the occasional scattered flock of those black iron oil rigs (indigenous to Texas), bobbing for that precious “black gold”. As the landscape changed from farmland to painted desert, I tried not to think about the heavy-hearted goodbyes that had taken place the day before. Tried not to think about the look in my mother’s pleading and apologetic eyes that simultaneously registered a knowingness about her youngest child; that I wouldn’t be back. At least not to live in my childhood home in the Ozarks, on North Camp Creek Road, on Rural Route # 1.
At seventeen and ending my junior year in high school, unlike many of my friends, I did not believe I had all the answers. In fact, I was manically aware of the intense level of uncertainty and frustration that seemed to define my life. I questioned almost every aspect of myself with, what some might argue was simply normal adolescent self-absorbed paranoia, instead of the kind of half-crazed-preoccupation-with-my-whole-self kind of thing I had going on. I retreated to and occupied all of the available real estate inside my head, finding it a struggle to vacation for too long on the outside. A trip that later would only be financed by years of good counseling, and good friends. Today, I am grateful to be enjoying a mostly permanent change of residency.
Of course, not all my memories of those years trigger a retreat. I mean, it’s not that I was freak. For instance, my natural-curly afro with the multicolored, Goody brand hair pick look, was all about cool (of course, given my unruly mass of curls, I’m not sure I would have had a choice in hairstyles). Then, there were the thrift store Big Smith overalls accessorized by last season’s basketball shoes that just screamed “trend setter”. My shoes were, after all, Chucks, as Converse high tops were regulation in Fulton County. I needn’t say more, right? I didn’t think so.
In all actuality, I did have other positives going for me at the time, that I was just unable to recognize. For one, I loved school. I loved everything about the whole experience; the learning, the challenges, my friends, the teachers (okay, not all of them, certainly not Mr. Carruthers), but the majority of them; the smell of new text books and a fresh supply of newly sharpened # 2 Ticonderogas (I know these don’t fit with the oh so “hip chick” image I’ve described for you so far, but you’ll find them stashed around my classroom to this day, only to be loaned out to the most trusted students).
Then of course, there was sports - another positive for me. Those Friday night football games that always concluded with a gathering of your friends at the Hwy. 62 Drive-in, nursing Dr. Peppers over shared baskets of greasy fries, before sneaking out to Nicky Painter’s Ford truck for Mountain Dew and Everclear chasers. We lived in a dry county and Nicky was our official “line runner” - and I’m not talking football.
But the sport that would sustain me through those years was basketball; one that served as a catalyst for my transformation from what was essentially, invisibility, to what would eventually come to feel like almost, small town local celebrity. I went from being, Marty, the frizzy-headed girl who read a lot, to an identity that was sure to secure a daily, “What’s up, Fuzz?” in the halls, from even the most popular upper classmen. Remaining calm, I would cooly respond, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” all the while resisting a quick look over my shoulder, just to confirm, that, yep, he means me alright.
Fuzz was the nickname given to me by Coach Cooper, our highly respected girls high school basketball coach. It was his belief in my abilities that served as a kind of life preserver for me during those years. I think he recognized the drowning kid, whom he knew could swim.
Given Coach Cooper’s winning record, it was not uncommon for half the town to come out on a Friday night for one of our games. It was surprisingly uncommon on a game day for me to pass a couple of good old boys I didn’t know down on the town square, wearin’ faded work shirts and sportin’ new haircuts from Virgil Cochran’s barbershop. They would tip their equally faded John Deere ball caps and drawl out, “Give’ em hell tonight, Fuzz.” Careful to conceal my inner angst, I would smile, nod, then confidently boast, “We’ll git it done, boys.”
Though my future in this sport was promising, I would not see my senior year at Salem High. Not the lure of college scouts, nor the memory of my best friend, Wendy’s tears, would deter my steps as I headed out to the barn that last morning to say goodbye to my dad. A proud, hard man who had survived the Great Depression, and who, being the second oldest of Luther and Bethel’s eleven children, had spent his life in service to others; often at the expense of his own life; certainly at a cost to his own family.
As I slid back the heavy wooden door, I took a deep breath and braced myself for what I knew would be both painful and awkward. I found him at the back of the feed shed, busying himself mixing calf formula, with uncharacteristic accuracy. My lungs, on the verge of collapsing, would allow only a whispery, “Dad, I’m taking off.” “Well, alright then,” he struggled in return. Without ever really looking at me, he managed a shaky, one-arm embrace, both of us wrangling with that old familiar feeling of mutual love, respect, and resentment. A father and daughter; we mirrored each other’s stubborn, unyielding personality when it came to being challenged or questioned on certain matters of the heart. Sadly, we have yet to experience the full, untethering release of forgiveness.
As the bus neared the station in my older sister’s hometown, I allowed myself my first deep breath, unencumbered by the weight I had been carrying for the past few days. I knew I was about to embark on that vacation ‘to the outside’ that was a lifetime overdue.
