CLABBER

                                                                 IN THE PINES      Willard puts Loretta on the juke-box and goes to the window. He looks out and smiles. Not dark yet. He returns to his stool. “ Pour me another , Jesse. I got a real good price on my cotton. Let’s celebrate my new truck.” Jesse pours Willard another two fingers of Old Crow. “ You been here all afternoon, Willard. Ain’t it time to go home?” Willard gulps down the whiskey. “ You’re right , Jesse. Guess I’ll head on out.” Will ard rises and staggers toward the door. Jesse pleads, “Please let me drive you home. You ain’t in any shape to drive and it’ll be dark soon.” Willard stops in the doorway and replies, “Jesse, you know you’ve seen me in way worse shape. Have I ever had any problems? I’ll be just fine. ” Jesse watches Willard go out the door. He watches Willard race off and thinks, “Arguing ain’t no use. Once his mind is set, Willard won’t listen to nothing a fellow has to say.” Jes

                                                         GLENDALE TIME Whenever Hank, Patsy, George, Tammy, or especially, Johnny sing red dirt roads take me back to the tap root of me, Glendale, Arkansas. Glendale, where my father, Holland Harrison Hankins, began; where my mother, Mattie Jean McDaniel was born; where my earliest memories were formed. The past rises from the dirt to engulf me, pulling me back to Glendale time. Everyone in my family has passed. I may be the last of Holland’s sons, but in Glendale time the distinction between life and death disappears. The bodies of everyone who knew the first me are buried in the cemetery at Rowell Missionary Baptist Church, but when I wander among the graves I can still hear them, touch them, and see their smiles. What am I looking for as I float back to an imaginary childhood? Am I l ike myriad other snow haired souls who refuse to let go of the past? For me , the past is more welcoming than today, or what I expect to hap