Momma spots me as soon as I come through the back doors and onto the veranda. Big old cotton-clouds shade parts of the fields to the south and east of the plantation house, where Dad's workers (Momma's parents still call them “the freemen”) gather up tobacco, the silhouettes of their ears (or the absence of them) and tails the only indicators of their species. At the end of the veranda sits most of my immediate family, except for Dad and Ken, who's probably troughing up the water like it's the Dust Bowl all over again.
“Cyrus, honey, we were getting concerned,” Momma says as she stands and walks over to me in that genteel float the upper Georgia crust has mostly left by the wayside. Her dress is the color of peaches, her mane done up in tight chocolate curls. She's the only lady I know—yet—who dresses in her Sunday best for a radio broadcast. Dad has said she did the same for Roosevelt's fireside chats.
She reaches for the cord but I wave her off. “It's okay Momma, I got this.” Momma makes a few fretful noises for her own sake but leaves me to it. Under the gazebo, the little white Zenith unit sits on its own table surrounded by Momma's Adirondack chairs (one of which contains—surprise—Junior's bulky, snoozing frame) with their own side tables in between. I plug in the radio, then run the cord back to a wall outlet just inside the house.
"Two Minutes", from Heat 9. Look for it this Friday!
Art by ulos12
, generation gap
, kentucky derby
8 years, 3 months ago
02 Apr 2014 21:39 CEST
Full Size: a7df1785b0f616e6037aa422df90eb6d