Surprises Times Three

When I said good-bye to my weekly updates of California to the Bootheel observations, I wasn't quite sure what would come next.  Writing that weekly post gave my life shape but then it all seemed to dry up.  As it turned out, not writing was a sure sign to stop looking, battle back my severe homesickness,  and start living.  And that is exactly what I did.

I started going to the river every day. The smells and sounds and motion of the river were healing and slowly but surely, the crashing of ocean waves was replaced by the gentle lapping of water at the river's edge.   I also got a job. Well, actually, the job got me.  Sometimes, when we think we are the most invisible, that is when people can see us most clearly.  New eyes, no preconceptions, clues here and there, a job offer.  So, nine years after retiring, I'm working again, albeit, part-time, but working none-the-less.  And, this work gives a new shape to my life.  

But then something unexpected happens and I have to write it down so I won't ever forget it.  It all started with a dental appointment.  My friend, Sr. Sharon, had an early morning appointment with her dentist in Blytheville and, never one to miss an opportunity to go to a bookstore, I hitched a ride with her.  She dropped me off at Blytheville Book Company (BBC) and while she sat in The Chair, I sat at a table reading and enjoying an espresso and steamed milk.  The nice thing about a bookstore in a small town is that everyone is a friend.  Stories are swapped, names are shared, and favorite book titles are recommended.  This day was no different. By the end of my morning, I had encountered a piece of living history, met another California refugee (who left before leaving was the thing to do), and was charmed by a little boy named Q.

I never got the gentleman's name so I will call him Mr. Gent.  Mr. Gent was in the Arkansas National Guard back in 1957 when he was sent to Little Rock, AR.  Do you remember the Little Rock Nine?  They were a group of young black students set to integrate the first school in Arkansas and it wasn't pretty. Orval Faubus was governor of Arkansas at that time and by the time the event passed, the first tentative steps towards integration had been made, fully eight years before the Selma to Montgomery Civil Rights March in 1965.  I was ten years old in 1957 and have no clear memory of the event except for what I learned in history class.  I do remember clearly the Selma/Montgomery March.  I was a senior in high school and President John F. Kennedy had been dead for 16 months.  Mr. Gent was there and when I think of him this evening, I hope that I run into him at the bookstore again.  I would love to pick his brain.

After Mr. Gent departed, I continued talking with Judy, the 1997 refugee from California.  Well, to be honest, she wasn't really a refugee.  She and her husband followed a job offer to Blytheville and they never left.  Once we discovered that we were both from California, we swapped town info.  Imagine our surprise to discover that in 1997 we lived just 90 minutes from each other.  I was in Turlock and she was in Madera.  It was only a matter of time before we were comparing notes on the cultural whiplash we both experienced, though 22 years apart.  Mr. Gent, before he left, declared that she sounded like Arkansas and I gave myself away as an Outlander because I said Cah-ruthersville, not C'rutherville.  Not to worry though.  In another 20 years, I'll sound like The Pirate, an interesting blend of California and Missouri.  Judy and I are now Facebook friends and we have actually seen each other again at the BBC.

Thinking my morning was behind me and home looming, I still had one surprise in store for me, this at the Blytheville McDonald's as you are leaving town.  Picture an older black man and a four-year-old boy both wearing dashing, sporty hats.  He was so cute and I had to say so.  The little guy was so proud of his hat.  It turned out the older man was actually his father and himself, the father of MANY.  The little guy was his youngest.  I asked his name and his dad answered, "Q".  I blinked.  Q?  I couldn't believe my ears.  I've only heard of one other boy called Q, EVER! And that  boy was my own son.  So, I'm shaking my head, astonished by the wonder of it all and dad acknowledged that it WAS pretty unusual.

Life is full of surprises.  Living history, a California refugee, and a little boy named Q all walked into my life in the space of 90 minutes.  Two weeks after experiencing it, I'm still feeling the glow of it.