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Dale Wisely |
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Aphids & Catholicism On our way to the beach we hit Bay Minette, Alabama just in time for Saturday night Mass, which will fulfill the Obligation, and give us a weekend free of religious guilt. We know from his verbal pace and the sound of the vowels that the priest, to our surprise, is not Irish or Italian but a local boy. "Went out to Dan Gossett's farm last week," he tells us, with the image of the risen Christ over his shoulder. "He has tomato aphids and he's worried sick. He wanted me to bless his crops, so I did," he says, and Father Bill takes a perfect comic pause. "I think he was going to get some insecticides, too." Onlooker's Delay 1 At a traffic light, I turn to look at the driver of the pickup truck. He looks at me. The driver is my father who has been dead for 15 years. He looks at me. It's not him. It's him. 2 I see a police car pull over a Honda Accord on 280. A half-minute later I pass, rubberneck. The car door is open and the driver is a very old man. He has his face in his hands and he is sobbing. The police officer stands at a distance, stiff. (He'd rather have a man fight and cuss than cry.) What does this old man now realize? What has he done wrong? 3 I drive on a two-lane. Comes now a couple. The man is driving and keeps jerking his face and body in the woman's direction. Closer now: He's screaming. What has she done wrong? They are coming at me faster, bigger, clearer. In the last possible frame before they doppler off behind my left shoulder, I see the man strike the woman hard in the face with his fist. I look ahead and the road drops away from my wheels and disappears from sight. Now the trees and signs to my left and right recede and disappear. I would float, but for the harness. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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