The Issues of Life: Book One

By K L Kluttz

The Issues of Life is about coming to terms with your past as a means of adjusting to your present circumstances. Its about taking inventory and owning every step taken to get you to the person you are. It is a study of introspection and perception. How events and assumptions can color and change people in unforeseen ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504911566

K L Kluttz

K.L. Kluttz is a graduate of Pfeiffer University and a North Carolina native.

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© 2015 K L Kluttz. 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 05/07/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1157-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1158-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1156-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907311

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For all my family and friends who love and encouraged me, thank you. Eden, you can do all things through Christ who gives us strength.

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N ow that I am older, I have a lot of time to sit and think about my life, the many twists and turns I took to get me here. I’ve run my course and fought the good fight yet I am still here. I’m not ready to check out yet; don’t get me wrong, but how many games of horseshoe with hard plastic shoes can an old man take. While I sit here and watch the staff of my retirement village speed through their shifts, I remember being their ages and how I sped through my own years. I want to say slow down and take a good assessment of all the good things in your life. I know that anyone I would approach would grace me with a polite nod and then hustle away. I do not fault them; I was the same way. As I take my own advice and consider my life, my mind is drawn to three periods that inadvertently defined me as a man. Maybe inadvertently is the wrong word, but at the time, I did not see the grand design; I was blinded or deafened by all the sights and sounds of living. So I am going to write as much as I can for as long as I can, not because I think my experience is worth more than any other man of my age, but as a record of another soul’s passing through on his way to meet his maker. Maybe my son and his wife will read this or maybe they won’t. Maybe no one will ever see this, but it gives me peace and clarity.

This is my recollection of the events of my fourteenth year. These happenings shook the vestiges of my childhood firmly from me and changed the lives of my parents irrevocably.

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B y the time I was fourteen years old, my mother’s presence in my bedroom doorway as I opened my eyes was expected and welcomed. Sometimes, I would wake early and wait for her to come and watch me. Every morning she would bring the smells of her early morning labor with her. The scents of bacon, sausage, or country ham clinging to her house coat like a miasma. Mama would not stop there. She would prepare fried potatoes, grits, or oatmeal to accompany her always light and fluffy scrambled eggs. A fresh pan of biscuits was axiomatic. My mother would always say her hard working men needed a meal of substance to start their day. As I lay still, smelled those smells, I knew everything was right in my world. I would listen for her soft calls to wake me, so when she did not come, my heart beat a little faster and I dreaded getting out of bed.

I found my mother sitting at the kitchen table; the cast iron stove dark and cold, standing in the corner like an errant child. My beautiful mother looked small, old, and fragile, clearly, not her dynamo self. Her usual tight, neat curls stood haphazard over her pea sized head. As I joined her on the opposite side of the table, I looked into her watery, red rimmed eyes and nearly drowned.

Mama, what’s wrong, I asked. Where’s Papa?

My mother reached out and gripped my outstretched hands with talons a bird of prey would envy, burying them in my flesh. She did not notice my wince. Her mouth opened and closed tightly until her full lips were compressed to a single line.

Mama, you’re scaring me! I said, my pain diminished by my rising concern for my father. Baby… She said.

My mother let go of my hands, leaving indentations printed in my skin. She stood and began to march around the table. In that moment, I thought about the children of Israel marching around the walls of Jericho.

Mama, I screamed.

My mother turned to look at me, but I did not recognize the woman staring at me. Gone were all the steel from her back and the acid wit from her tongue. Gone were the smooth skin and bright, laughing eyes. Every line her face had defied for the last 60+ years had found her face seemingly overnight.

Your Daddy was taken to the Sheriff’s office for questioning. They found Mabel. She whispered as if we had an unwelcome audience.

For the sake of my recollection, I must explain about my parents and the community in which we lived. I was born to my parents after they had given up hope of having children of their own. Before me, my parents decided that every black child who lived in lack or just needed a little extra guidance was theirs to lead and help. After me, my parents especially my father, still carried on that ministry, believing that it was a calling from God for their lives. My parents were well-to-do compared to the people around Herringbone County. They owned their own land and were able to pay their grocery bill at the town store every month. We were not rich but we were comfortable. My parents were big fish in a segregated, small pond.

Mabel was my father’s special project. She was not a child but a young woman who had a childlike, simple mind. When Mabel had been two years old, her father decided he really give her something to cry about, so he beat her until her mother grew a spine and stopped his foot from coming down her head for a third time. Mabel had healed but she carried that beating for the next seventeen years in the form of a vivid yet vacant smile. Mabel’s trouble with her father did not end. He was a constant thorn in her and her mother’s side. He was mean drunk and was even meaner sober. My father took to Mabel because she reminded him of his little sister who was born a little touched. She died when my father was sixteen and she was nine. She said her head hurt and then went to be with the Lord. My Daddy saw Mabel as a second chance to take care of his baby sister. He never missed a chance to help Mabel. When she called, my Daddy answered. My Mama did not like all the special care my father gave Mabel but she understood and let him. On that morning, I could see the regret of that decision weighing heavily on my mother’s face. Mabel’s mind may have been substandard, but her body was of the caliber artists like to immortalize.

What? I don’t understand. What would the Sheriff want with Papa? I asked.

Mama sat back down in her chair and breathed deeply. For now, they’re questioning him about his whereabouts and the like. But I’m worried if they do not get the answers they want, they’ll beat him until he changes his mind.

Candor from a woman who told me until a few months previous that babies were left on peoples’ doorsteps by angels and women’s swollen bellies were just an outward sign or promise from God of the future angelic delivery was even more disturbing than her pacing. My mother was speaking to me as she would normally speak to my father. It was as if she was already preparing herself for his absence and I was to become his replacement.

Still, Mama, what does the Sheriff want with Daddy? I know he spent a lot a time with her, but she wandered all over the county. Why Daddy, I asked.

I could see the gears beginning to turn again and a flicker of hope lit my mother’s dim eyes. I had served my purpose and it was back to kid time again.

Don’t worry, he’ll be home soon. They just wanted to question him that’s all. I was being silly. What do you want for breakfast? She asked as she made her way to the stove and stuck a match to the preloaded tinder box.

That was it. As quickly as it had come, it was gone just as quick. For a fleeting second, I had a glimmer of my parent’s world and then the door was slammed in my face. At the time, I would not have said I was sorry that it was. That world was much too big for me.

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W hile I was going around with Mama, Papa was staring at Deputy Wilson’s badge. It positively sparkled. As he watched, Wilson ran his right sleeved armed over the badge, taking care of any smudges that may have sullied its face within the last three minutes he had made the same maneuver. Not a sound could be heard in that room; nothing, not a fly buzzing or a clock ticking, only the periodic rustle of a shirt sleeve running over nickel plate. Finally, when the door opened, creaking on old hinges, it was a welcomed sound.

He stood in the doorway, an imposing figure. Sheriff Denel was a big man. He accentuated his size by wearing big hats, belt buckles, and heeled boots. He needed none of these things to assert his authority. His reputation did that for him. When he had been elected, his first duty had been to set the example for all the criminals in Herringbone County, the petty and the hardened alike. Sheriff Denel was like God in that aspect, he was no respecter of person. To him a sin was a sin, no small or big, just a sin. So when Wally Torre stole some equipment from a construction site, Sheriff Denel took one of the stolen hammers to Wally’s hands. By the time, Wally served his ninety day stint; he could no longer button his own shirts or do anything else requiring minimal dexterity; his days of picking locks on storage sheds were over and everybody understood the new Sheriff’s approach to law enforcement.

John Wilbert Johnson, Denel said as he filled the doorway, blocking the light from the hallway. Why don’t you tell me why you would want to go and hurt that child that way?

My father stared at the Sheriff, measured his words against all possible outcomes and said, Why don’t you tell me?

Deputy Wilson shot a glance at the Sheriff and then made a move to get up from his chair. Denel restrained him with a touch on the shoulder. Denel fully entered the room and closed the door behind him. He leaned up against one of the grey walls looking like he could hold it up with his girth if necessary, his eyes looking small and mean in his fleshy face as they danced over his detainee.

When was the last time you saw Mabel? He asked, conversationally.

Last Thursday, I was taking a load of tomatoes to Pete and she was walking across Cover Bridge. My father answered.

What did you do?

I waved at her; she waved back and kept walking.

Did you offer her a ride?

No, she was going the other way, toward the Bottoms. I was going to town.

Anybody see your interaction?

My son and Pete can tell you I got to his diner at ten because he likes to get his tomatoes right before the lunch rush. He says they make his sandwiches better that way.

So, you are sure that’s the last time you saw Mabel?

Yes, positive.

Is this your coat?

Yes and no, I gave it to Mabel

"When did you give