sunday afternoon
Life was hard in the Valley of Raynor Shine. It was a most backwards place that clung to the old ways, while embracing anything that would make life easier. So as the lamp lighters were singing their tunes, people would be setting their v.c.r.’s to record the late night news.
There are days set aside to show the working people of the village that their hard work was noticed, by well no one really knew who was watching, but the holidays were appreciated just the same. The holiday that was the most loved was 8th day.
Now 8th day was the only week in the entire year to have 8 days, so the workers could have an extended weekend. On 8th day every working man in the village would gather in the town center for games, food and drink. Bands would play and cart venders would come selling their goodies and children played in the streets.
I remember one 8th day my father woke very early. He was cooking breakfast for himself and in an uncharacteristic turn, was whistling to himself. I watched from the doorway as he made his morning meal and sat down to eat it.
It was then that he saw me and bade me to set with him. He placed one of his eggs on a slice of warm bread and we sat to eat, while he told me of his youth and how he and his father had done the same thing.
My father and I were never really close, we spoke only when need be and he was a very old fashioned disciplinarian. We were always very distant since his loss on Dead Sons Day, except for this one particular day. It was a warm morning and the light a soft glow in the kitchen and I was having fun.
After breakfast he ushered me off to my room to get dressed in my Sunday clothes so he and I could go to town for 8th day. It didn’t take long for me to dress and soon we were on our way.
We walked down the footpath from our home into the valley and he would point out a tree or something and regale me with tales from when he was a child at play. He told me how close he and his father were and on that day I felt just as close.
We got into town just about mid morning and many of the laborers from my father’s factory were already there. He greeted each and every one of them, introducing me to each and sharing a small bit of conversation with each then moving on.
Eventually he sat down under a large tent in the center of town, with most of the men from the village and began to drink. It was at that point he told me to go and play with the others and turned to his friends.
I was never really one of those kids who played which was why I had brought a small pad of paper and a pencil. I found a small patch of shade under a crying tree and began to draw the town as best I could.
I sat sketching listening to the sounds of the bands play and men laughing in the shade of my crying tree, on one of the most comforting days of the year. I watched m father set and drink his drinks and laugh and act like one of the younger men from the village.
He was not the hard and bitter man I knew. He was not the cold, stone faced provider I called father, he was simply a man who had friends and a life I was being allowed to observe if even from a distance.
He saw me setting there pencil in hand and waved me over to him. He looked over my artwork, showing some of the better pieces to his friends and glowing in my talent. He told them that at one time he could draw but time and responsibility forced him to stop such trivial things.
I knew he was not being hurtful, it was just the way his generation spoke and even though he never said he was proud of me and my talent, I knew he was and that was enough.
He then stood and took me by the hand, he excused himself and we walked to the town theater where we shared a moment I will never forget. He took me to the window box and bought two tickets, popcorn and a soda. We went inside and sat down to watch my very first movie.
I remember it was a very entertaining documentary about the founding of Raynor Shine called The beginning of the Greater Depression. We both set enthralled at the film; it was as if it were his first as well.
When it was over he knelt down to me and told me to be off, he was going to rejoin his friends for a moment, but he would be coming for me when the games began. I returned to my spot under the crying tree and penciled down some of the images I remembered from the movie.
The owner of the local market came by with a small brown bag. He told me it was for coming to 8th day, smiled brightly, rubbed my hair and went on his way.
I opened the bag to find some candy, a spool on a string and a toy car. I found out later that he sold these bags in his store. They were bags of children’s joy. Each filled with a handful of candy and two toys. I learned to love those things more than anything I can remember. They were better than Dead Sons Day gifts because you never knew what was inside! Each bag held a new surprise and a chance for something truly wonderful and yet none of them ever disappointed.
My father, good as his word came by and sat down with me. He tried to show me how good he was with a spool on a string, but I think he had a little much to drink and ended up laughing from frustration. It was time for the games to begin and we went to each one waiting to be next in line to compete.
The first game was the log saw. Two men would take a side of a massive saw and begin to cut a large tree trunk. The best time won the saw. My father labored fast and furiously with his best friend but try as they might, they lost to a younger team.
Next came the knife throwing contest. Each man would get three tries to throw a knife into a dollar bill nailed to a tree. Anyone who played the game had to pay a dollar to do so and the winner of the contest would take the fee’s home.
In the event that more than one man hit his mark, there would be a play off till there was only one man left. My father won. With each throw of the knife, he hit every time. No other man in the village was able to do such a thing, only him and I was full of pride.
The last game came as a surprise to me. It was a race between fathers and sons. Each parent and their child was charged with placing an egg on their head and had to run from one point to the other without dropping their egg.
My father ran to me with the egg, he took it from his head and placed it on mine and sent me on my way. I ran as best I could with the egg on my head but alas I took a bad step and fell breaking the egg forcing us to lose the contest.
My heart was broken. I felt badly for losing and it showed. My father knelt down to me one last time and brushed the dirt from my clothes. He looked me dead in the eye and told me that next year we would win and to buck up, it was no big thing.
We then went to the tent and I began to head for my crying tree when he grabbed my shoulder and sat me down beside him. I sat and listened to his laughter and tales with his friends as though I were one of the crowd.
The walk home was spent in quiet reflection. I could almost see the shroud of his reality fall over him and he became as he had always been, as I knew him. Just before we entered our home we sat on the front stoop and he smoked his pipe.
”Those are some nice pictures you drew today.” He said flatly. It was as close to I’m proud of you he ever got.
“I love you dad. I had fun today.” I said to him.
“I know.” He said with the smallest of smiles on his face. Now go get ready for bed, the lighters are beginning their song.
I lost my father years later. His pipe had given him the Cough and it took him before I was ready. I ran across those drawings and the paper is old, brown and brittle, but the memory of that day lingers in my mind like the warm breeze of that morning and I am forced to realize that he may no longer be in this world, I may not be at home in the Greater Depression, but my fathers hand is always on my shoulder saying the things he never said in this life, making me a better man today.