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!!!
