FROM UNDER THE PORCH

By Billie Bierer

One man's search to find his purpose, to help his family while making a contribution towards safely helping others.

Billie Rutledge Bierer is a South Caroli

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billie Bierer
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087993478

Book preview

FROM

UNDER THE PORCH

Billie Bierer

Published by:

Bookmarketeers.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition © 2020 by Billie Bierer

Hardcover ISBN: 9798759712688

Softcover ISBN: 9798759699798

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Requests to the publisher for permission should be addressed to [e-mail].

A story, written by Billie Bierer as told to her by her husband, Walter Steck Bierer.

This book is dedicated to Huel Gunter, best lineman, unsurpassed salesman, a true gentleman, and friend with far-sightedness and personal understanding of the power industry within the United States of America.

Perseverance–steadfastness in doing something despite difficulty or delay in achieving success.

—Webster

Table of Content

PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE BILLIE

WALT

PROLOGUE

Spring passes, and one remembers one’s innocence.

—Yoko Ono

Richland County, South Carolina 1958

Walt looked up sharply from the basket of peaches he was culling and arranging inside one of the for-sale baskets. His eyes tightened on the northern stretch of roadway. He could hear the whine of a V8 motor. He knew that sound. Someone was going really fast. He narrowed his eyes, even more, watching the slight bend in the road between the trees just north on U.S. Highway 1, above the peach stand. The car was getting closer, louder. What the heck? There was a railroad crossing just after the curve, almost in front of the peach stand. They would never make it. His heart began to race.

Really loud now, the car’s engine sounded like a scream—an engine full out, at least a hundred miles per hour. He saw it. The driver hit the brakes and slid sideways, banging and screeching, the car bouncing up and across the railroad tracks. Walt waited for the vehicle to roll, but no, the car stopped dead sideways smack on top of the white line below the tracks.

He knew his cars, and this one was a new 1958 four-door Buick, light-colored in the hazed lighting. Suddenly, all four doors burst open, and the passengers, all males, jumped out of the car and took a leak, piss spraying everywhere in the dim light. They were laughing. Bunch of clowns. Walt shook his head. Luckily, no traffic. He went back to checking peaches. He had no time for jokesters. He was working.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Lexington County, South Carolina 1947

It was dark under the old porch, and there were spiders and webs and all manner of bugs. Most kids would be afraid. He knew his sister, Jody, and his sister, Pat, would be, but Walt, as small as he was at three, had been under there before and found he didn’t care about bugs or spiders. There were many more frightening things than bugs and spiders, and they were all up there, above him. His gaze rose toward the floorboards that separated his tiny space from the porch above. His thin neck contracted as he swallowed. He could hear the muffled sounds of THEM. Some lady yelled, Those little ones need a mother. No man can take care of the little ones!

He had crawled into this space from the rear of his house, wearing his hand-me-down overalls with holes in the knees. At the narrow brick entrance, he had taken off his shoes, and though three, he’d known enough to pull those battered shoes in after him. His brother, Charlie, could be out there right now looking for him and no way was he coming out.

He squinted his eyes and tried to peer up through the separation between the floorboards again. It’s a blessing he has older children, a woman said. Walt thought it a blessing he knew how to hide, but it sure as hell was no blessing that God had taken his mama away.

The light was murky at best. Walt stayed motionless so no sound could be heard from anyone above him. Webs stuck to his medium-brown hair, and he brushed a hand over his head. Old warped wood creaked and groaned as footsteps clomped around. He heard old ladies talking, sometimes whispering. We know lots of single women we can introduce this man to.

It’s too early, Beth.

Well, this is a terrible thing. It calls for immediate action. I am so sorry for their loss.

Stop it. He is in mourning, Beth. You will make him angry.

No man can take care of all six of these children—seven altogether, but the baby, I hear, is headed to Florida with grandparents. Thank God. Maybe the church should step in. Maybe we could look into placement.

Hush! We will talk about this later, in privacy.

His dad couldn’t hear about how sorry they were for his family’s loss and how this man could not care for all of these children without a woman, how the church could step in to find placement for his children. What was placement? Walt wondered. He did not know that word, and not knowing frightened him even more.

Tears tracked Walt’s dusty cheeks. He tried not to think about Mama up there, grey looking, her eyes closed. She couldn’t talk to him. He knew. He had gently poked his finger against her cheek, his bottom lip quivering. She would never talk to him again. His lips clamped tightly. He was not coming out from under that old wooden porch until every one of those churchy do-gooders, as his father called them, were gone. His small nostrils flared with defiance. All those fat old women with puffy, wet lips grabbing at him, trying to kiss on him. No! His purpose solidified. He thought about how it did not matter how many times they called his name. He was not budging. He was determined, and it did not matter how hungry he got either. For all he cared, he could starve to death. Tears slid down his cheeks.

Luckily, his attention shifted quickly as he became fascinated by the intricate webbing the spiders continued to weave. He gently touched a web with dirty fingers and focused. A smile creased his smudged face. His green eyes narrowed as he watched spiders scurry away from his fingertips then stop as if waiting for his prodding fingers again. He watched the webs. They were frighteningly beautiful, as beautiful as the veil from his mother’s wedding hat. He noticed that although he annoyed the spiders, as soon as he stopped poking them, they persisted in their job. Were they not afraid of him, and why not? he wondered. His sisters would hate the spiders, and this thought made him giggle.

Spiders had tiny black eyes, but there was no way for him to know what they were looking at. It seemed they stared straight through him. Somehow, he knew they felt safe here in the dusky light just like he did. This place seemed to make them all safe. He watched them work. They were busy. Many years later, he would realize that the spiders’ lives depended on their diligent work as his life would depend on his work.

Dust particles floated in subdued lighting. Walt watched them and tried to catch them. He was full of questions, although for now, there was no chance of any answers. Of course, at three, he did not know a lot about most things and, least of all, how to frame questions. There were so many questions.

He did know about the feeling of being safe. Walt’s gentle probing touches of web changed from that to snatching at floating dust motes. He felt he was in the great wild as he’d heard his brother Charlie call the forests beyond the family yard. Dust motes were sort of like the fireflies he and Charlie caught in the yard sometimes, only without lights. He sure hoped he wouldn’t get too hungry.

Hurt by life, and though he was home, he felt lost and confused. He did not know how to say those things. He felt better when he wondered about the spiders and thought about his dad. He did want to ask questions and try his best to find correct answers. He knew nothing about the possibilities around him that could eventually enable him to make a better life for himself come true. He was just a little kid hoping for a safer world, where people like mothers did not go away.

His siblings worried about themselves. They had no time for his questions. He knew enough to know that his world was now more fearful since his mother was gone. Days drug on seeming terribly long because so much of his time was spent in hiding.

The baby, a girl, named after their mother, Virginia, was going to disappear to Florida with those crazy grandparents of his. All he really understood was that right now, these old people sure got his dad upset and cussing, and that made Walt mad too. He was happy that Virginia was leaving. He supposed leaving home was an adventure just like his adventures in the woods because the next thing he knew, his oldest brother, Ron, went to Florida to live with the grandparents too. Why Ron wanted to leave their pop made no sense to Walt. Maybe his grandparents were really nice people after all. The whole thing was confusing.

He had seen and heard his grandparents yell and fight with his father. Those grandparents called his father a murderer. He thought back on the screeching sounds of their fight, and this brought tears to his eyes as he remembered some of their words.

Murderer! You killed our girl, Bert! You and your veterinarian medicines! You’re a sorry bastard!

His grandfather, Murphey, had stood ridged beside his grandmother, solemn. We need to go home now. Come on. Both of them were crying, making their way to their old Plymouth.

His father had yelled at the open door. You two are bat-shit crazy! I loved Virginia! She’s the one who wanted all of these children. She loved them all. Don’t ever come back to my house!

This made Walt cry then as it did now, and he didn’t often cry anymore. He wasn’t sure how bad the name-calling was, but his father was not mean to him. His father was sad. Walt could feel the sadness in him. Walt loved