A few years ago, we lost a wonderful songwriter and musician, Larry Henley. He was a great friend. He started out as the lead singer for the Newbeats. You may remember his only 1960s hit, "Bread and Butter."
But Larry is better known as the co-writer of the song "Wind Beneath My Wings." Bette Midler made it a hit. A few days ago, I was thinking of Larry. He was a good guy. Then I thought about the wind.
As far as I'm concerned, the South is the very best part of America. There's a bunch of backup to this statement. Kinder people, better manners, a strong belief in the miracles that God can and does perform and our collective backbone are but a few examples of what separates us from the rest of the country.
Before any of you Yankees go getting upset, I know there's good people in all parts of the USA. It just seems like the South has more. It's not only the charm of our people but the aesthetic beauty of the South: green pastures, clear-water streams, the Smokies and skies that seem to project the Almighty's daily moods.
According to Dimple, my grandmother Miz Lena's No. 2 housekeeper, one only needed to look to the day's sky for a hint of how God was feeling.
If it rained, it was the Lord's angels' falling tears, mourning someone's loss. Lightning and thunder was the Almighty turning on the lights in heaven and moving furniture around. The sun was indicative of God's happiness. Snow was a pure-white cleansing of the earth, and the wind was God's whisper. Dimple told me, "Honey, if yuh listen real good to da wind, yuh can hear da Lord talkin' to yuh." I was very young and terribly impressionable. I believed her, hook, line and sinker.
More than a few times, when I was little and living out in the country, I stuck my ear to the wind to see if I could hear what God was saying. The best that I could decipher was that he was telling me that everything was gonna be all right. I'm not sure that I actually heard those words, but it was the feeling that I got. Wind doesn't get the credit it deserves.
I was of the opinion that the higher up I was, the better God would hear my prayers. I climbed the silver maple tree up at the cemetery when I needed to tell him something important.
I figured that I'd also have a better chance of hearing what God was saying from a higher elevation. The trouble was that the wind made the big tree bend and sway. It was just too dangerous.
So when the wind blew, I listened for the Almighty's whisper. Once in a while, I'd listen from atop a hill that my dog, Prince, and I used to climb and just hang out. It was on the backside of Mr. Pennington's farm.
He was a little man with red hair and a limp. He hit the bottle daily. Seemed like he and his tuckered-out wife had a baby for every year they were married. More boys than girls. There was a mess of them.
I knew one of the boys. Charlie. He was a year older than I. His claim to fame was that he was struck by lightning. He was climbing up a telephone pole at the time. Not only did he suffer third-degree burns, but he fell off and broke his back and one of his legs. He was out of school for several months.
The Pennington farm was just off the twisting two-lane on the way toward Columbia. The dirt road that led up to their house was on the right, just after a shaving lather sign. If someone was giving directions to get to the Penningtons', they'd say, "Go on out there a little piece, and take the first right after the Burma Shave sign."
Used to be, especially on country back roads, Burma Shave put up a succession of rhyming, small rectangular signs, about a half-mile apart from one another. Each sign included a few words of the entire message. The ones that led up to the Pennington farm read, "To change that shaving job to joy you gotta use the real McCoy Burma Shave."
I kind of miss those signs. They felt so Southern. Same can be said for the Chattanooga tourist attraction Rock City. They paid farmers a yearly sum of money in exchange for allowing them to paint the farmers' barn rooftops black, with white letters that read, "See Rock City." It was very clever and effective outdoor advertising. There's still a few of them around.
Mrs. Pennington was what we used to call a religious fanatic. I remember having a conversation with her about what Dimple told me about the wind. Mrs. Pennington said that the Lord talked to her all the time, especially when she was in the bathroom. After visiting with Charlie, Prince and I headed up the hill, in back of the Pennington property.
Prince and I were just hanging out, and here came Mr. Pennington, staggering up. He asked me, "Have yuh heard anything yet?" I hadn't.
The only thing that I ever thought I heard the Lord say was, "Eat okra." I know it sounds crazy, but that's what it sounded like to me. I did think it odd that for all the times I listened for the Almighty's whisper that's all I ever got back. For the record, I've always loved fried okra.
Without the wind, there's no kite-flying. Back in the day, you could buy a paper kite for a dime. It came with two balsa strips that you stretched vertically and horizontally across the back of the kite and inserted into loops at the kite's four corners, creating a bow.
The most important component to a good-flying kite is obviously the wind and the tail that hangs at the bottom. The tail keeps the kite balanced as it ascends into the sky. We usually made the tail from old sheets or a worn-out towel. You had to tie some knots in the tail to give it some anchoring. I've even tied rolled-up newspapers in the tail.
Next, you'd unwind your kite string from the cardboard spool on which it came. I think you got about 100 feet of string per spool. Seems like I always ended up with lots of kite string. Some of it, I bought. A lot of it came from disgruntled kids who had tried but failed to get their kites airborne.
I'd watch them out in Widow Thompson's lower-creek pasture, sprinting back and forth trying to get their kites to fly. They'd run out of steam and patience, throw up their hands and split. They just left the kites and string lying out there. It became mine. I would tie all that string together, grab a good stick, wrap the string around it, and I was good to go.
With a little breeze and some fast-as-you-can running, your kite would get launched. Just you, your kite and the wind. For a kid, it's the next best thing to you yourself flying.
With enough string, you could get your kite so high that it became but a speck way up there. You could really feel the strong tug of the wind. Often, when I got it that high up, I'd cut it loose. I'm not sure why. It just felt right, like it deserved its freedom to fly on its own. Maybe, it would make it to the moon or maybe even heaven.
The winds of summer's end are Mother Nature's dress rehearsals for the oncoming autumn season. The fall's cooler winds blow in and separate the leaves from the tree limbs. Soft landings below. Like all God's gifts, wind comes with some poetry.
Wind seems to come from nowhere. There's nothing more exhilarating than a Southern afternoon breeze. Everything can be still and quiet, then here comes the wind. When I was a kid and it was hot, I'd pray for a breeze, and it came. Proof that God was looking out for me.
During my tour in Vietnam, with soaring 120-plus-degree temperatures, trudging through rice paddies or cutting a path through the jungle, I often said one of those under-your-breath prayers for just a little bit of wind. It never came. God had his hands full. There were so many of us praying to him all at the same time.
The best that I could do was think of those Tennessee winds. Somehow, my Southern childhood memories of gentle breezes cooled my body and my brain.
So, God, if you're reading this little story, on behalf of us all, please know how very thankful we are that you created the wind. Every time it blows, I get a good feeling.
Also, Lord, if somewhere down the road, you see fit to allow me to step through the pearly gates, maybe you could explain to me what that "eating okra" thing was all about.
Bill Stamps' books, "Miz Lena" and "Southern Folks," are available on Amazon. For signed copies, email bill_stamps@aol.com.