Beyond the Front Porch: Reflections of a Southern LIfe

By John Pridgen

Growing up in the South, there was one thing that everyone seemed to have in common—a front porch. It was our collective window to our world. We would relax there as a family or sometimes even alone to watch the day’s events go by. They made up the crazy quilt that defines our lives. This collection of my memories takes you to a place beyond that old front porch. A place where you may laugh…you may cry…but you just may find a reflection of yourself!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977273178

John Pridgen

John Pridgen was born and lives in North Carolina. He attended Catawba College and later received his MBA from Wake Forest University. He began to write as a local columnist for the Kernersville News. He currently teaches real estate classes while continuing to write, which is his passion.

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A LESSON IN COURAGE FROM A HIGH SCHOOL HOMECOMING QUEEN

Sometimes in loss we gain. An odd way to look at life, I have to admit. But the last several days brought it to fruition for me. I’ll never forget that look in her face. As long as I exist. All I have to do is close my eyes and it’d be there. A tattoo on my psyche. Some kind of vacant far-off look. She didn’t recognize me…not that I could tell, anyways.

I felt responsible in a way. I knew them both since sixth grade. They were the straightest people that I would ever know. Both nice. Both honor students. Both popular. I was fortunate to be their friend. More his than hers. We ran in common circles and I watched their love grow. From a small ember. To whispered bits of information. To endless nights talking about her. Do you think she likes me? he would ask me. Well, he said…that she said…I think so! I would offer my best intelligence.

She said she’d go out with me! he exclaimed as he ran by in freshman gym class. I was as happy for him as if it were happening to me. I’m going to ask her to go steady, he told me during our sophomore year. Whenever you saw one, you’d see the other. They were inseparable. I just knew they would grow old together. Raise a family. The quintessential perfect couple.

I can’t remember the first signs of trouble. Does anybody? Seems like she missed a few days of school. Then more. Reality tends to finally catch up with rumors. Did you hear? She was sick. Really sick. I’m not sure at that stage in my life that I fully comprehended at first. Seventeen years is just too young to face this. The progression of it was like slow motion. The next few months seemed like years.

They purchased a contraption so she could listen in to the classes from home. We could hear her and she could hear the teacher. She had always made straight A’s. Never knew anything else. He was a straight A student as well. One of the smartest kids I’ll ever know. He didn’t talk about it too much. He didn’t get down in the dumps. But he was always there. Always full of hope. I can’t say that I knew all the details because I didn’t. I can say that my classmates suffered great pain for them as we watched and lived a nightmare.

The rituals of high school never seem to stop. It’s such a social time. You’re in…You’re out. Such a big part of our lives. A lot of it was very painful…in a growing kind of way. Yet looking back on it I think it is a necessary part of life. When young people run headlong into maturity. Some faster than others…for my classmates far faster than we would ever realize. It was going to consume us into our junior year.

No greater of those rituals than homecoming. We were about to enter one of the highlights of the school year. We would build our float and choose our class attendant to the homecoming court. Building the float was easy. We never won the competition. The teachers seemed to love those darling sophomores. The class attendant to the court was usually a contest based purely on popularity. We’d go through the motions of voting…but to the vast majority of us it didn’t mean too much.

I’m not sure how the movement got started, but in the balance of a day we all knew. She would be our class attendant. He would be her escort. There was something higher at work here. A noble purpose. The question became, could she make it? Every day for the next two weeks rumors multiplied. She was too sick. She was better. Then the night of the game the procession formed up. Yes, she was there…in that convertible…with those flowers. She was radiant…rising up against a disease that sought to torment her. Too weak to stay long, she gave us a dose of courage beyond belief.

A few months later we found ourselves huddled together in her hospital room. I remember seven or eight of us. Drawn together in that cramped little room. So close we were touching. So far apart we were alone in our own thoughts. The room was dark except for a small lamp which illuminated her face…no expression…just that look. An oxygen mask covered her face. Her struggle to breathe mirrored her struggle to live. We were eternally changed that night…her last.

After the funeral, we often talked about her struggle. He went on…still a good friend. We all scattered after high school to pursue our lives. But we all held this experience in common…that our friend taught us more about life and courage than we would ever forget. The night that our queen. ..her name was Debbie…and her true love…his name was Lane…would rise up against a disease…Leukemia…that we must all vow to defeat!

A LESSON MADE FROM SCRATCH

I’ll admit that I am afraid. Standing here not quite sure I wanted to try this. It was going to be very tricky…and I had never tried to do this by myself before. But some force prodded me to action. I can’t tell you why or how this force moved me but it did. So here I was. Alone. Nervous. Tempted to not try what I had to try. Besides, Christmas was bearing down on me like a freight train and we simply must have this one thing. The celebration would just not be complete without it.

She was just here. My mom. Was it a minute or a lifetime? I had called her up. Let’s make some peanut brittle, I had coaxed. It wouldn’t be Christmas without it. She had readily agreed. She always did. What do you want me to get? I asked. Nothing, she said, with that hint of assurance in her voice. I’ll bring everything we need. She always did.

It had been early December. She reached the top of the stairs leading to our kitchen. Phew. She leaned against the island. Let me catch my breath…those stairs ‘bout got me. She laid down her equipment. Her favorite pot. Her favorite big spoon with the wooden handle. How old was that…older than me. She was the most amazing cook. Not schooled in the finest French schools or well versed in the coquettish ways of the Culinary Institute of America. But the best cook I would ever know. And candy…it was her special gift.

All my life there were certain definable points. Birthdays. Anniversaries. And candy at Christmas. Not just any store-bought confection. Something grounded in years of experience and know-how. Something made with love. My mom had come from a large extended family. Every Christmas my grandma and her sisters would gather somewhere for the big Christmas Candy Bake Off. Mom always gathered up her favorite candy making pot, spoon, thermometer, and special ingredients and joined in this Candy Olympics. When it was held at our house, I would hover somewhere within smelling range. All of my mom’s family were loud. Everyone seemed to talk at once, creating a wonderful candy-making noise. I never knew how they understood each other but somehow the communications were carried out to perfection. And the candy. Large tins of fudge…I liked it without nuts, peanut brittle, butter mints, and some peanut butter-filled piece of heaven dipped in chocolate and placed on wax paper to cool off which I never learned the name.

From that day until Christmas, I and my sisters played a cat-and-mouse game with Mom and her candy. We would try to sneak pieces without her seeing us. Sometimes we would have to create diversions as a special candy SWAT team. While she was busy with one, the perpetrator would sneak enough for the rest of the team. She would open her tins and exclaim in mock shock, Who’s been in my fudge!? I think she enjoyed the game as much as we did.

As Mom’s extended family passed on, those group candy makings faded away. But she always made candy. I tried to watch her to learn how to make it. She knew everything by heart. How do you know when it’s done? I would ask. You just know, was her constant reply. Now I’m a write-it-down kind of cook…you know the type…college educated. I needed structure. Written instructions with measurements. Or I could always call her on the phone. I don’t really know what possessed me to want to learn this craft. But for some strange reason I needed to know.

What do you want to make? She had caught her breath. I was a little worried about her. Dad had mentioned to me a couple weeks earlier that he was concerned about her health. I hadn’t been dismissive, but I don’t think I had been overly concerned at the time. Peanut brittle, I answered. Oh, that’s easy, she mused. Easy for you to say,’’ I retorted. She went straight to work…expertly measuring out each ingredient. She made no wasted movement…a candy-making machine. Her hands cradled the spoon with such confidence. She made the stirs with a distinct little flip that allowed the sweet brew to roll off the end of the spoon. At just the right intervals she would offer insights. See how it’s getting stringy? That tells you it’s cooking right, she went on. At just the right temperature she added the peanuts. Why don’t you turn up the temperature? I asked. It won’t cook right, she said. You can’t force it…it will cook in its own time.

I nodded in agreement. My first attempt at fudge had turned out tasty but never got past the consistency of silly putty. I realized that I had become impatient and turned the heat up to hurry it along. But here was my expert…teaching me…helping me…loving me. As usual, the batch of peanut brittle turned out perfect. We sampled it and put the rest up for later. Little did I know that when she left with Dad that night that it would be the last time, she would visit my house. I lingered on the driveway and waved as they drove off. Christmas was near.

I plunge ahead. My wife hangs nearby as I explain to her for the umpteenth time that I believed I knew how to do it. Dad had tried a few days ago and didn’t quite get it right. I had stopped by and borrowed Mom’s hand-written recipe. Not much on instructions but the measurements were there. I put the first ingredients into the pot…positioned the candy thermometer just so I could watch it and turned on the heat. At first the temperature rose steadily. I whispered a little prayer for Mom to guide me. The mixture began to boil. Then it lingered at the same temperature for what seemed like an eternity. I became worried. I fretted out loud to my wife, I don’t remember it taking this long. The mixture began to chatter back to me. Don’t force it. It will cook in its own time. Her words came back to me. I settled down and finished the brittle.

Sitting here enjoying the peanut brittle I anticipate this Christmas as those past. Before turning the tree lights out, I feel her presence with me. I miss her, but I know she’s in some strange way very close. How do you know? one might ask. The answer lies in some of her last instructions. You just know!

A LITTLE TLC CAN CURE YOUR CSD

I knew I didn’t feel well. I just didn’t know how bad…or what was wrong. Then not long ago in a meeting at work I got a clue. Our presenter was talking about the new benefits. Covers things like CSD, he opined authoritatively. Now I can’t stand the use of TLA’s. That’s three-letter acronyms. Most corporations are eaten up with them. I think it makes people seem smart. They use them…people won’t speak up…you think they must be in the know.

I personally don’t subscribe to this misguided notion. I always ask. Afterwards I’ll figure out that at least half the people in the room don’t know either. What’s CSD? I couldn’t tell if the speaker was relieved or annoyed that someone asked. Cumulative Stress Disorder, he shot back. Well now, that’s a new one. Seems that we could all fall into that category. It’s amazing that modern science was able to isolate this. It’s the buildup of stress over time that causes the disorder, he explained the obvious. And this is covered by our health policy? Alrighty then. Is there any cure?’’ Don’t think so." I only had to think back a few days.

My disorder began early. Taking my kids to school. Kinda like herding butterflies. Not much conversation this early in the morning. About a half mile from the first school I ask Got your lunch money? Yeah, from one kid…’’No, from the other. What do you mean, no? Stupid question. I don’t have it…I don’t want to eat a voucher lunch. A frantic search turns up one dollar and 47 cents. How much is lunch? Dollar seventy-five. Check under the seats." Another twenty-three cents. Ah, for lack of a nickel. I peel back towards the nearest ATM (always takes money) machine. Good, no one’s there. I won’t have to wait for someone to pay the national debt in front of me.

I dash to the little screen. Out of service burns my brain with a garish green light. Down the block and across the street. Dad…we’re going to be late! Let’s see…what could I get for a slightly used kid at the local flea market? I interrogate the second machine in record time. I get a new twenty-dollar bill. Dad. I can’t take a twenty to school! Why not? I don’t want to carry all that money around.

We swerve madly through the nearest drive thru. Orders? I’m barking now. Dad! We’re gonna be late. I have to get change. There’s one of those pickup trucks in line at the speaker. It has huge bins on either side. There’s enough ladders on top to service the space shuttle. I count at least five people crammed in and behind the cab. Terror takes hold. I guess each will have a separate order…all paying separately.

Welcome to Breakfast World, may I help ya? Two sausage biscuits, a cheese biscuit, and two Sprites. I’m on fire now. That’s three sausage biscuits…and two…is Seven Up OK? This is called death by drive-thru. Daaad! I repeat my order…whipping around the building. Are those my tire marks on the curb? We pull up behind the ladder boys.

Free at last, we make a mad dash across town. First school. Out. Second school. ..barely slowing down to deposit my daughter. My workplace seems like a haven in a sea of turmoil. Heading home, I brace myself. I like to call it the DER…Daily Exception Report. The tax bill for the car came. Our twenty-year-old toaster exploded and pitted the counter. The Jeep is making a funny noise. The lawnmower won’t start. I forgot the cleaning. Sarah’s tooth is loose. David has an algebra test (math is my area…scary thought). The dog has a thing on her eye and someone drank my Yoohoo that I was saving in the fridge for just this moment.

After a furious couple of hours, I settle in to watch TV. Yes…my time…sheer escape. I click on the remote…half lying in the seat in some contented slump. Hey what’s going on! Daaad! Yeah? Cable’s out!! I sit in silent surrender. CSD. I think the entire world has cumulative stress disorder. About that time my daughter comes downstairs, ready for bed. She gives me a big warm hug. Night, Dad, she whispers, I love you. I found my cure!

A MOON PIE WILL CLEAR YOUR HEAD

Maybe it was one too many potato chips. Or two. Or a couple of bags. Maybe it was the way she was staring at me. Deep dark eyes. No matter which way I moved, they followed me. Her body was posed in the most seductive fashion, wearing some rawhide-looking bikini with those fringy things hanging off. The letters leapt from the page.

New members only…$99.95 at the health club. Join today. Hmmmm. Yes. Maybe I should drop by there. What’ll it hurt? I’m going to change my life. It’ll be a new me.

She looked up from behind the counter. Blond. Perky. Wearing that kinda…you know…Uh…let’s just call it itty bitty gym clothes stuff.

Hi, I’m Debbie. Can I help you? She smiled.

Ah, yes, I saw your ad in the paper. I might be interested in a membership. Let’s face it. I was too far into it now. A man can rationalize anything. His brain turns to absolute mush when presented with an opportunity to foolishly part with his money. She proceeded to explain all the fine points of membership. Nautilus weight machines. Sauna. On-site dressing rooms. Jacuzzi tub. And last but not least, a personalized program to measure my fat and report my amazing progress.

Will someone work with me on the weights and show me what to do? I expected some male counterpart to assist me with my amazing journey to fitness.

I’ll be working with you. That smile. I honestly think I blacked out. If l were a deer, she’d have my head on the wall behind her. I couldn’t wait to get started. Sign up the new me.

I decided to stop in on my lunch hour. It would fit in my schedule. Besides, the new me didn’t need all that high-fat food in the middle of the day. Maybe some fruit after my workout. Debbie awaited.

Hi, John. That smile. She remembered my name.

Let’s start with some measurements. I tightened up my waist. It’s a wonder the wallpaper stayed put, with me sucking in air. She worked expertly. I was a little dizzy.

What do you think? I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.

About normal. She didn’t look up from my new me chart. As opposed to what… the Michelin Man? The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? She led me back to the weight machines. She explained each one and what it would do. I demonstrated my excellent attention span. I worked on each to her praise. The new me.

The next morning dawned bright. I started to get out of bed and was met with sharp pain. Every nerve ending screamed as I attempted to roll out of bed. I hit the floor in some half stoop, half crouch. I managed to stagger to the bathroom. Lifting my razor took considerable effort. Somehow, I made it through the day. Gee, this must be how great health feels. By the following day I was moving much better. Besides, my personal trainer awaited.

I dressed quickly. There seemed to be more people here than before. I finally found a locker beside some big hairy guy. His skin accidentally brushed my arm as he strained to put on his tennis shoes. There are no words