On the banks of that river
It was a small mobile home, elevated to resist the seasonal floods. It sat along the banks of that river that ran to the sea; land stolen from the Yuchi and held dear by a single family until it was divided into lots and sold piecemeal in the sixties.
A round amber glass ashtray sat on a stand next to the the screen window closest to the couch, and this was her chosen seat. "More" brand cigarette butts lie crushed and spent among the ashes that seemed to dance in the reflections and refractions of the early morning sun; a breeze made the poplar and pine swing and sway, adding shadow to the lights at play in that ashtray. A porch had been added in 84. It ran the whole length of the right side of the trailer; a shingled roof, screened in sides and bottom, an old chest freezer, and a single bed bought from an army surplus store populated the timber addition. A vinyl couch that folded down into a bed, kind of like a futon, sat along the wall of the trailer closest to the river, to capitalize on the view. Resting on the arm of that couch was an old Coca-Cola glass that looked like stained glass, filled with sweet tea. A paper towel wrapped around those stained deep greens and reds, obscuring the iconic logo, so that no beads of sweat would mar the furniture. Extra dining tables and a spare refrigerator completed the furnishings of the porch, with a couple of rocking chairs scattered about.
In that window seat, a woman in her mid-fifties sat. Bespectacled, wearing mostly black hair with a touch of gray in a somewhat bobbed style, and a plaid button up shirt of light cotton; alternating pattern of blue, white, red; not quite a standard plaid, but a busy one filled with pencil thin lines and little squares of color. Blue jean capris, no socks, dark blue canvas slip-ons with a red stripe running around the top of the white soles, and one leg crossed over the other. Large framed glasses, bifocals, glanced out to that river running by, just yards away.
In her hand was one of those dark brown cigarettes, recently lit.
It was going to be a hot day, but it hadn’t yet gotten there. There would be swimming in that river, probably right after lunch, (but she called "lunch" "dinner," and "dinner," "supper,") before the afternoon thunderstorms.
The door to the trailer stood open, propped by a cloth-covered brick. Green shag carpet peeked out of the living room, just to the right, a brown cloth LaZBoy recliner and a wooden end table with a brass lamp sat; another amber ashtray rested there, this one beveled and carved. A case was next to that ashtray, red leather, with a clasp; within, that cardboard box with those iconic near-black smokes; a cheap Bic lighter rested atop that box inside that case.
The brown leather couch could be seen sitting along the far wall, with that steel-and-real-wood tv table. A single post ran from round table top to four steel legs, like the legs of a hat rack. It looked industrial, or maybe even office-furniturish. Resting atop that table, a Sears Color TeleVision; the remote control perched next to the brass lamp over by the LaZBoy. The television was on Press Your Luck, and stretched out on that couch was a boy of around 7. His head rested on the armrest closest to the TV; it was, of course, too loud, but he didn’t mind.
A smaller, more plush brown fabric recliner set to the left of that open door. A mirror image of the end table sat next to it, but no ashtray rested atop it. Instead, out on the floor next to one of those rocking chairs on the porch (the short-backed gray one) there was a small brass bowl. Inside that brass bowl, there were telltale ashes. Those ashes belonged to a dark brown wood pipe, now resting in the chest pocket of a man in his sixties. Next to that pipe, in that same pocket, was a brown leather pouch containing Carter Hall tobacco. The man who owned that pipe was out in the yard, between the steps of the porch and the steps of his silver aluminum outbuilding. Like the trailer, the outbuilding was elevated to resist the seasonal floods. The cinderblocks used to achieve this elevation made convenient hiding places for his Old Milwaukee’s. He drank them hot, because he couldn’t keep them inside; this man used to be a friend of Bill, but now he was friends with damned few people. He was still avoiding Jack, Jim, and Jose, but that would change within the next ten years.
He was a meticulous groundskeeper. The grass was kept in check with regularity one could set a clock by; edging, weedeating, mowing was all done with precision born of years spent in the care of the United States Army (Luzon, ’45), the Fire Department, and finally the docks as union stevedore.
The steel stairwell down to the water’s edge was new, as was the erosion wall he’d had installed. A floating dock was moored just in front of that wall; a green john boat was tied fast. These items he maintained with regularity one would associate with a sailor instead of a soldier; coats of paint or water seal were applied annually.
His pair of outbuildings were kept compulsively organized; army footlockers, old metal Planters, Fisher’s Peanuts, and Folgers cans organized his collection of nuts, bolts, nails and tools. Between these outbuildings sat a shelter, built on a concrete slab. Under this roof was a sink, a few chairs, and some steel lockers. Nothing subject to damage by that river was kept here, it was all likely to be bathed in those waters. Such was the danger of living on those old Indian lands.
His brother used to live next door. His widow sold the place; strangers stayed there now, but they were only periodic visitors. Some weekends, they’d come down with grandkids, but most of the time they didn’t play with his grandson. His grandson, lying on the couch inside just now, was mostly content with the company of his grandparents, particularly his grandmother. She doted on him, fed him meals he requested, played games with him (Monopoly was a favorite) and role-played lifeguard to him when he decided to go swimming.
On a commercial break, the child stepped outside to the porch. He saw his grandmother looking out that window, and he saw the sunlight glinting off that slow-moving water on its journey to the sea. The river resembled very closely that glass of tea she sipped in between puffs of that cigarette; it was light brown from tannins and a sandy bottom.
He had no way of realizing this moment of peace wouldn’t last forever. His young mind couldn’t grasp the significance of the beauty he saw before him. The quiet stillness of the air, the gentle flow of that river so much like the flow of time just steps away, were lost to his whim. His grandmother, sitting quietly, in a rare moment where she felt no pain, was enjoying a respite from the blaring television and the oft-loud grandchild now quietly watching her.
He went to her and lie down on that aqua blue vinyl, and rested his head on her lap. With her left hand, she continued to slowly smoke, and with her right, she ran her hand through his thick light brown hair. He looked up at her, and she down at him, and they didn’t speak. Together, they just sat on that porch before the heat ran them inside the house or inside the banks of that slow-moving river so near by.
Even then, she knew there would not be many more days like this.
She barely saw him turn ten, and he never saw her turn gray.