Fincher Neck

By Bruce Flexer

All Runt Baisden and Malphus Washington want to do is play high school football for their beloved Fincher Neck Bulldogs and legendary coach, Burley Hanks. In time, they discover they are being called to a higher purpose.

Unknowingly, Runt and Malphus together become the flash point of a community bound by rote ignorance and fear. The future of Fincher Neck hangs in the balance.

The fate of Runt and Malphus will determine the fate of Fincher Neck. One wrong step will guarantee disaster and time is running out before the inevitable happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491852453

Bruce Flexer

Bruce Flexer is a South Georgia native, born and raised on St. Simons Island, Georgia. He enjoys and cherishes the culture surrounding his hometown and is a proud South Georgian. For the past thirty four years, he has owned and operated an apparel manufacturing business which he started in 1980 after graduating from the University of Georgia. Flexer’s competitive nature extends far beyond his entrepreneurship and book writing, he is an avid golfer and also loves to play and watch football. He can still throw a “tight” spiral. He competes in various athletic events and also enjoys entertaining folks through his comedy shows. He is a man of many talents. Bruce Flexer resides with his wife Terri and they have two grown children, Lindsey and Jay.

Book preview

© 2014 Bruce Flexer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/25/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-5246-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-5244-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-5245-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900725

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Dedication

This book is dedicated to everyone who ever took the field on a Friday night.

Foreword

Bruce Flexer’s second novel Fincher Neck is a memorable story of an innocent friendship forged in the furnace of small town undercurrents and societal upheaval.

Fincher Neck reflects a time of great struggle and change. To reference Dickens, Fincher Neck depicts the best and worst of times. Wisdom and foolishness, light and darkness, hope and despair define it’s essence.

Flexer, true to form, draws from his deep, rich Southern heritage to craft a tale replete with colorful characters and experiences common to all who have known the ebb and flow of the segregated South.

N. Doster

CHAPTER

1

All those years ago seem like yesterday. Sweat dripped off my nose and on my chin as I sat under the fifty—yard—line bleachers at the Fincher Neck high school practice field. Burley Hanks had his team surrounding him and was explaining the virtues of practicing hard. It was the fifteenth day of July nineteen hundred and fifty three, the first day of football practice for the Fincher Neck Bulldogs. Burley Hanks stood six foot even and weighed in at two hundred and eighteen pounds. He played linebacker at The University of Alabama in the early forties and had come to Fincher Neck to coach football. In his seven—year stint as our mentor, the team had won three region titles and played for the state championship twice. Coach Hanks was the most powerful man in our town. More influential than all the politicians and the rich men put together. The veins in his neck protruded and tobacco juice spewed from his mouth as he yelled instructions to his players. His vocabulary was mixed with a few choice obscenities that scorched my ten—year—old ears and would have made my Momma cut and run. Burley Hanks lived for football. He taught history to satisfy employment requirements but he was first and foremost a football coach. Any football player taking his class was assumed a passing grade regardless of academic ability, no questions asked. His motto was Football is king, everything else is chicken shit.

Fincher Neck was settled around 1842 in Southeast Georgia among the tall pines and majestic oaks draped with Spanish moss which lined the banks of the Satilla River. The land was flat with only an occasional rise in the elevation. The soil was dark and rich and produced bountiful crops of tobacco, cotton, vegetables and other agricultural products. Fincher Neck supported some twelve hundred residents and like all towns had the haves and the have not’s. The Grady Land and Lumber Company was the chief employer with small family farms being the second largest source of livelihood for the populace. Georgia Highway 82 ran east to west through town and intersected with the north to south route, Georgia Highway 441. Traffic was moderate on the highways except for spring and summer seasons when the well-to-dos from Macon and Atlanta would pass through on their way to vacation in Florida. For the most part, we were good, God—fearing people who occupied the churches on the appointed days.

Burley Hanks ran his boys through carefully prepared drills. It was only an hour into practice and several had already vomited, with one passing out completely. I eased myself from under the bleachers trying not to be noticed, and while Coach Hanks had his back turned started for the Baisden farm. I was a Baisden, Tommy Baisden to be exact. The heat enveloped Fincher Neck like a blanket from mid-April to late September. The only relief was the afternoon thunderstorms that you could set your clock by most summers. I was a perspirer of epic proportions and the shorts I was wearing were drenched. My skin was tanned from many shirtless days. My feet were calloused enough to walk on the boiling blacktop roads with no discomfort. As I approached our house, I heard the slamming of the screen door and looked up to see my Momma standing on the front porch with a towel in her hand. Mattie Baisden was my mother. She was also the wife of my daddy, John Dower Baisden, and the mother of my brothers John Dower Jr. and Arno. Momma was a beautiful woman in appearance and spirit. She had a nurturing quality and cared for others more than she did herself. Her family was her life and she showed it by the immense love she poured out upon each one of us. Momma taught her boys hard work, have compassion for others and love for their Creator. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and know how grateful I am that I grew up in her loving arms. When I got close enough to the porch, she threw the towel down to me. Wash up under the hose before you come in and dry off all the way. Don’t you track in my kitchen, Runt Baisden she said. Yes ma’am, I replied. As she turned to go back inside I heard her laugh to herself and whisper, Good gracious, I’ve never seen a white boy get so dirty.

Everybody in Fincher Neck called me Runt. That was my nickname given to me by a grocer named Leelan Dubs. Leelan Dubs owned and operated Dub’s Grocery Store on the main street downtown. He once told my dad as I was in tow and only two years old, J.D., there ain’t much to that boy. I reckon he’s the runt of the litter. There were some men standing nearby that began to laugh, and the name Runt has stuck with me ever since. I never did get to know Leelan Dubs. A short time after that he was sweeping sawdust in the meat section of his store when he grabbed his chest and collapsed dead into the freshly ground sausage.

The towel Momma had thrown me felt good against my skin as I dried off from the water hose. All of the dirt had not come off, but at least I was presentable enough to enter the house. Our house was a modest two bedroom wood framed structure with a sprawling porch that meandered along the front and sides. There were enough rocking chairs adorning the porch to hold a church meeting. Many times the porch was full of ladies who had come to visit Momma and gossip with one another. The kitchen was small and opened to a dining area, which led to a bedroom and a sitting parlor. My parent’s bedroom was just off the kitchen and was the coziest room in the house. It’s large bed stuffed with goose down feathers faced a spacious brick fireplace which gave the room it’s comfort. One of my great childhood memories was getting up early and climbing on that goose down mattress between my parents. It was the safest I ever felt. The warmth of that memory still nourishes my soul to this day. My dad was not shy about building a fire and kept a plentiful stack of dried pine just outside the bedroom window. The room I occupied was the biggest in the house. I shared it with my older brothers J.D. Jr. and Arno. They were nineteen and eighteen respectively and had joined the Army which stationed them at different bases in Texas. We all shared one bathroom, which, oddly enough, was off the kitchen near the screen door on the back of the house.

I walked into the kitchen where Momma was peeling potatoes. She grabbed my arm and held me there while she inspected my cleanliness. I must have passed muster because she gently leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Moving past the kitchen window, I saw Daddy striding quickly in from the pasture. John Dower Baisden was a sturdy man over six feet in stature with a hard work ethic and rugged good looks. His stern exterior belied the gentle man our family knew. Daddy enjoyed laughter and loved my Momma with every ounce of his being. They were very affectionate towards one another which gave me a great deal of security. Momma called him J.D. as did everyone else in Fincher Neck. Daddy was a dairy farmer which meant long days of never ending, back- breaking work. He milked, pasteurized, bottled, and delivered milk six days a week. To this day, I believe my brothers joined the Army to take a break from the dairy farm. Daddy started the business at a young age, and because of his hard work we were somewhere between the haves and the have not’s.

The first crack of thunder sounded around four thirty that afternoon. Most of the rain storms in the summer came from the west. Momma went into the rooms which faced in that direction and began closing the windows. I walked out on the porch and gazed up at the sky to see the darkest clouds I had seen that year. The lone pecan tree in the front yard swayed over our house as the wind began to blow with intensity. A massive bank of clouds moved threateningly toward our farm accompanied by sheets of pelting rain that flooded the landscape. I watched in awe and positioned my rocking chair directly into the cool breeze. Lightning lit up the darkened sky and the wind brought the closest thing to air conditioning we ever had. I actually shivered a little as the rain blew in on the porch and soaked me from head to toe. There was something magical and mesmerizing about these powerful summer storms. They were simultaneously enchanting and frightening as they benefitted both man and beast. When the storm had passed, nature came alive as the sound of frogs and crickets filled the air and birds took the opportunity to bathe in and drink from the heaven-sent water. The sky was a piercing blue and the air so clear it seemed as if you could see half way around the world.

Later that night Daddy sat in his chair while Momma plopped in front of him on the floor. He ran his hands through her flowing hair as she wrote letters to my brothers Jr. and Arno. Every week night without fail, Momma wrote letters to them. She marked the envelopes with the day they were written so the letters would be read in order. They were tied together and mailed every Saturday ensuring the Jr. and Arno had the week’s news. Our mailman was Red Haddley. He looked forward to bringing Momma letters from my brothers and would personally deliver them. Momma always got excited enough to give Red a big hug. Even as a young boy, I could tell Red Haddley enjoyed my Momma’s embraces because Mattie Baisden was not unattractive.

The game of football was intoxicating for me. I went as many times as I could to watch the Fincher Neck Bulldogs practice. There was a bald patch in the grass under the bleachers of the practice field where I sat. The players were like gods to me. They seemed huge and invincible and able to conquer anything that got in their way. Friday nights in the fall were a celebration for the whole town. Our high school stadium had a maximum capacity of one thousand spectators and if you did not hold season tickets, or knew someone who did, you usually didn’t get in. The visitor side of the field was set up with an old rickety set of bleachers that barely held one hundred. Most of the visitors that came to a Fincher Neck Bulldogs game had to stand up to watch. So many visiting teams complained about the seating that the Georgia High School Association mandated that we fix the problem. Fincher Neck Field was a tough place for the opposition to play because of the rabid fans, not to mention the quality of our teams. Daddy held season tickets and we attended every game. Both Jr. and Arno had played for Fincher Neck and although they were not stars, they both lettered their senior years and wore their letterman’s jackets proudly as did every other recipient of that coveted piece of apparel. In Arno’s last season, he somehow ended up with a game ball which he brought home and never returned. I slept with the ball on many occasions, not as a crutch or anything of the sort but mainly because it felt so good in my hands. Although the ball was somewhat large for me to handle, I practiced throwing it almost every day. God did not gift me with an abundance of speed or size but what I could do from my earliest memory was throw. We had two towering pine trees in our side yard adjacent to each other. They were my receivers and I threw at them on the run, backing up, standing still, and every which way I could imagine. Both trees had bald spots where the bark had been knocked off by the ball. Daddy would throw with me occasionally but he was always busy and I hesitated to interrupt his work. In some ways those pine trees became my trusted friends, dependable, sure, accepting as day after day I peppered them with slants, hooks and bombs. Those trees gave me an opportunity to do something that gave me great pleasure and, except for my having to rake their needles in the winter, the trees had no faults.

Clement Davis was my best friend. He was red headed with a fair complexion and freckles spotted up and down his arms and legs. Everybody called him Fleabite. Clement was another victim of the late grocer Leelan Dubs. Clement and I were the same age and his family was one of the haves in our town. Fleabite’s dad owned the saw mill, and they lived in a big house near the high school and always drove a late- model car. Fleabite was not the athletic type and his mom had pushed him to play the piano at a young age. He was always well heeled with a dime or two in his pocket, and we found our companionship likeable for the both of us.

Saturday morning after I finished my chores, I took the football and sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. Fleabite rode up on his bicycle. You wanna go to the drug store? Yep, I replied. Momma, I yelled into the house. She had heard our conversation and said, Be careful Runt and mind your manners. Yes Ma’am, I retorted. As I was getting on my bike Red Haddley pulled up in his mail truck, climbed out, and began walking towards the house.

When Red got out of his truck instead of simply putting the mail in the box, it meant he had a letter from Jr. or Arno. He had not gotten very far from his truck when Momma burst out the door, leapt off the porch and met him half way in the yard. He handed her the two letters, and upon her inspection she grabbed him and hugged him tightly. Fleabite and I rode by as they ended their embrace. Red had a big smile on his face as he walked back to his truck and I heard him say to himself, Damn she’s good lookin, as he climbed back in his truck to finish his route.

Dutch Harper’s drugstore had a big orange Rexall sign hanging out front. To this day when I see a Rexall sign, I am reminded of Coa-colas, ice-cream cones, hot dogs, and my favorite grilled pimento cheese sandwiches. Dutch Harper had jet black hair and wore it straight back and held down with a jell that had a distinct odor. He was a slight man who smoked cigarettes as fast as he could suck one down and light another. The drugstore had tile floors and several ceiling fans which circulated the smell of southern delicacies cooking on the grill. On the rare occasion that I had pocket money, I would order a grilled pimento cheese sandwich. Dutch’s wife Mavis made the pimento cheese from scratch. She smeared both sides of the bread with butter and filled them with heaping portions of pimento cheese which then spilled out like a flow of lava. Each sandwich was served on a paper plate with a fork so that every morsel of her homemade delight could be enjoyed.

Fleabite and I spent hours in the drugstore at the comic book stand. Fleabite actually read them while I just pretended. Darlene Harper was the reason I went to Rexalls. She was Dutch and Mavis’ daughter and was the first girl our age to develop a chest. Darlene worked behind the soda fountain counter in the summer, and I was infatuated with her. I spent considerable time holding a comic book in my hand, pretending to read while watching her every movement as she worked. One day I noticed the comic book stand had been moved away from the soda fountain. Later I learned that Dutch had a one-way mirror in his office in the back of the store to keep an eye on his inventory. I surmised that he grew weary of my fixation on his daughter. As we were leaving the store Mrs. Harper yelled out, Fix you a pimento cheese, Runt? No ma’am, I replied as I pulled both my empty pockets out of my pants to show her I had no money. Still looking at Mrs. Harper, I clumsily walked into the door that Fleabite held open for me. Darlene was behind the counter and erupted with laughter. Red-faced with embarrassment, I left with the satisfaction that at least Darlene Harper had noticed me.

For whatever reason, Saturday afternoons brought folks to our house. The women would gather in the rocking chairs on the porch while the men would congregate in the backyard under the shade of pecan trees. Unell Pickett was one of the regulars that visited our house on Saturdays. He ran the farmers’ market and the tobacco warehouse. Unell was a short, stocky man with a boisterous personality. An ever present bowler’s hat with a sagging feather protruding from the side, adorned his balding head. Unell was the self appointed libation courier, supplying a jug of tonic for the men to share. Daddy was not a big drinker of alcohol but enjoyed a sip from the jug every now and then. The men told stories and laughed at one another. This particular Saturday, someone had asked Unell about his hat. I snuck around and found me a hiding place where I could not be seen but could hear the conversation. Hell yeah, the ladies like this hat! said Unell. He was not married and, according to him, the women folk found him irresistible. I heard another man say, I ain’t ever seen you without that hat on your head. You ever take it off ? I take it off for one reason and one reason only, he replied. Everyone knew Unell exaggerated his prowess with the ladies and one of the men shot back, Well, I guess that hat ain’t seen a night stand in years! Laughter broke out between the men, and I heard Unell ask for the jug. Momma was in the kitchen fixing supper when everyone left. Daddy had taken a few sips of the tonic and was feeling frisky. He snuck up behind her and grabbed her around the waist and began kissing her on the neck. J.D. Baisden, you smell of a still, Momma said trying not to smile. Get your no good self into that bathroom and get cleaned up right this minute and don’t be long. Suppers almost ready,she continued. Daddy spanked her one on the behind and headed for the bathroom. He drew a bath of hot water and let the steam rise up and fog up the mirror. Daddy liked to play tic tac toe on the freshly steamed bathroom mirror. He was in his third game when Momma yelled from the kitchen, J.D. I hope you are already out of the tub and not playing tic tac toe! I just won three in a row, he yelled back. You’re playing yourself, said Momma. My daddy said if you are winning something, you stick with it, Daddy retorted. Your daddy was a bigger fool than you. Now you get in here this instant, she said with exasperation. Momma and I sat down at the table as Daddy hurriedly got ready. With water still dripping from his head, he made his way to the table. He leaned down and kissed Momma on the cheek. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are? he asked as he sat down in his chair and said the blessing.

Sunday afternoons were special. We always went to church in the morning and ate one of Momma’s scrumptious Sunday dinners afterwards. The dairy farm occupied most of Daddy’s time during the week, but he reserved Sunday afternoons for me. We loaded up in his pick up truck and rode around in the country. Daddy never failed to bring two Milky Way candy bars with him. He would place them in the glove compartment so we could enjoy them on our rides together. Daddy knew every inch of that land and took me somewhere different every outing. Fincher Neck boasted some of the most beautiful oak trees and landscapes in the entire Southeastern United States. Daddy’s truck was a nineteen-forty-seven black Chevrolet that had seen it’s better days. The upholstery on the seats was stained and worn. In certain spots bulging springs and padding were exposed. Daddy had grown attached to the vehicle and kept it running with his considerable mechanical skills. Momma constantly implored him to buy a new truck, but her pleas had, thus far, fallen on deaf ears. The day was crystal clear with a bright blue sky and a caressing breeze. The Spanish moss swayed gracefully as the gentle wind eased through the stately trees. We turned down an unmarked dirt road and Daddy slowed the truck to a crawl. To our right was a large field of tobacco that was being picked by Negroes who were singing in perfect harmony as they worked. We stopped to listen to the music, and I gazed at a barn that was already full of drying tobacco. J.D. J.D, a voice yelled. Daddy peered past my head through the truck window then opened his door and stepped out on the side railing. Howdy, Mrs. Morel, he yelled back. Y’all come on up on the porch and drink a glass of lemonade, she replied. We pulled the truck up the dirt drive and stopped near the front of