MY FRIEND EARL

A TRUE SHORT

by

Lee Carey

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My Friend Earl is a not fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are REAL.

Copyright © 2010 by Lee Carey

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MY FRIEND EARL

Summer days for a teenage boy living on a chicken, hog, and turkey farm in Princess Anne County during the sixties was ‘almost’ as exciting as it sounds. Yeah, about like two barrels ‘a monkeys. This situation screamed for serious measures dedicated to creative antics and adventures guaranteed to hold boredom at bay, allowing this boy to make the best of his surroundings. This challenge proved a simple matter, especially when said boy relied on his immature brain to assist him. Ignore consequences and dangers while devising and going forward with stupid actions strictly for self-satisfaction. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Along with farm life, my dad owned a Purina feed store in Norfolk, serving animal and poultry growers in the surrounding country areas. I recall when my world began expanding past relatives and school friends to meeting new people, known as adults. If my memory serves me right, I think the year was ’61 or ‘62, which would make me eleven or twelve. One thing I do know, it was the perfect age to play baseball and fish and, in my case, those enjoyable pastimes only occurred after I completed my chores. At the time my ‘to do’ list seemed way too long and included duties I didn’t consider pleasant. I would have preferred providing the family with fresh fish. Thankfully, youth allows one to run full steam ahead until total exhaustion wins.

Certain days I would accompany my dad to the feed store. For many reasons I enjoyed these times. Sure, I would be required to sweep the warehouse, dust the display shelves, and perform any other tasks a young boy could do. Back then, I was unaware of the term ‘gopher’, but now I know that’s what I was. Now don’t misunderstand, I would rather have worked around the store than picking up dead baby chicks on a hot day in our chicken house, or suffering with a bad toothache, or even the stomach flu. And I can’t forget spending three days each week mowing our three-acre yard with a fourteen-inch Lawn Boy push mower. Didn’t need a ‘wide-load’ sign on my back with that dinky thing. Talk about a monotonous job! I could see the thick grass continue growing where I’d just cut it. I guess that’s why I don’t do yard work anymore.

Revisiting those long-ago days, after fifty years, is pretty neat. I’m thankful for my memories. I can still feel the hundred-pound burlap bags scratching and itching my arms and legs, not so much from lifting them as playing on them. I’ll never forget going to the box cars on the train track with the men to unload the Purina feed. The sweltering heat in those metal cars was unbearable, especially when you’re running and playing on the feed. Then there were the nights I had to gobble my supper and go with my father and his men to a customer’s chicken farm to catch, coop, de-beak, and vaccinate from one to two thousand chickens, in an ammonia, poop-packed house, but not for nothing, nope…was paid a whopping dollar a night. Let’s see, if I could stand this super, fun-packed job every night… wow, I’d make $365 a year, tax-free. Sign me up!

Throughout the years, I hung around the men working at the store. The years have muddied the names and faces of most of them, but there is one man who remains as clear in my mind as if it were yesterday – my friend Earl.

Earl is of average height, a bit on the pudgy side because his wife, Doris, is a good cook, but he has strong arms. Back then, men didn’t belong to fitness centers, heck no, those hundred pound bags do wonders for one’s physique. A friendly smile was as much a part of Earl’s face as his sparkling eyes. He possessed a genuine laugh like he did his name. I never heard Earl utter a bad or cross word or negative statement about anyone (I took care of the poking fun and complaining), and during those few years, I spent a lot of time with Earl. He was my favorite older friend and the only one I wanted to hang around with, no matter what he had to do, and I finagled it whenever possible. Everybody, young and old, liked Earl. He had the patience of Job, the humor and laugh of a truly happy person, and several sayings I still use today.

When the workday wound down, I could either ride home with my father or Earl, because he went past our farm on his way to his house in Blackwater. Guess who my choice was? Bingo…lucky Earl. Looking back, I’ll bet this kind man cringed and asked God ‘why?’.

Being young and immature, and still working hard to create fun experiences, I always enjoyed spicing up our thirty-minute ride home, and at times I needed to reach deep into my bag of stupid tricks. When I invented a good one, you could bet it would make an encore appearance. Here is one of my classics…in real time.

Earl walked from the old feed store and climbed into the green International pick-up truck. After getting permission from my father, I rushed out, leaping into the passenger side like a bobcat. “Dad said I could ride with you, Earl!”

“That’s good, Bobby.” He started the truck and pulled onto the feeder road parallel to Virginia Beach Boulevard, then took a right onto Military Highway. As Earl shifted the gears (I was impressed with how smoothly he did that), he chuckled and said, “You helpin’ us tonight at Mary Wenger’s?”

Holding my hand out the window, letting the humid wind blow through my fingers, I said, “Yes, sir. You know dad always makes me help. How many chickens we gotta do tonight?”

Earl nodded and rested his arm on the door and settled in for the drive. “Oh, not many, maybe a thousand. We’re only de-beakin’ ‘em and movin’ ‘em to another house. Don’t fret, the time’ll fly.”

His reply was as calm as if we were planning a day of fishing. I looked at him with a puzzled look and saw his smile appearing. “What’cha mean, only a thousand Earl? Miss Mary’s houses have more ammonia than all of the others we work in. Besides, there’s always a slick spot near the water troughs and I slip down four or five times, falling into chicken poop. It’s dark in there, too, Earl. You’re outside with Clarence loading the coops on the big truck, but at least you’re breathin’ fresh air and not stompin’ around in poop.” I always had to point out my side of everything. If I’d done better in school, mama said I would’ve made a good lawyer.

With a chuckle mixed in, he replied, “That’s what I say.”

Here’s one of Earl’s famous replies. ‘That’s what I say’. Even when he hadn’t said it… he’d say it. I always wondered about that, but never bothered to ask him. And to this day, I say the same thing and every time, I hear him saying it. I wonder if people ever want to ask me why?

I situated my boney butt on the dusty, plastic seat cover and continued to argue my point. “Besides, Earl, the Davis boys (identical twins – black as night) get in there and play around while Raymond and Terk while I do most of the catchin’.”

Earl took off as the light turned green and made a left from Military Highway onto Indian River Road. After smoothly shifting gears, he said, “Don’t worry, Bobby. Your daddy knows how many times you boys come to the window with chickens. Ain’t nobody pullin’ no monkey business on him. No, sir, none of y’all gonna get away goldbrickin’. He pays attention, and don’t think he don’t.” He looked over at me and laughed. “If I remember, he’s caught you a few times not showin’ up at the window. Right?”

I leaned against the door, looked straight ahead, and nodded.

“That’s what I say.”

There, he said it again. See what I mean?

We rode along in silence as I remembered another night stumbling around in a dark, stinky, poop-filled chicken house, getting my arms scratched and my face slapped by birds. I’ve always preferred chickens fried, not frisky.

We crossed Kempsville Road after stopping at the stop sign. Today, it’s a huge, major intersection. Anyway, I glanced to my right, eyeing Powell’s Drug Store on the right. They had the best banana splits and fountain drinks and hamburgers. “We got time to pull into Powell’s for a drink, Earl? I got some money.”

Shifting into third gear, he replied, “I don’t think so. We gotta get home, eat, and get ready for Miss Mary’s tonight.” See, he always kept a level head, but I know he would have loved a fountain Coke.

Thus far, our trip home lacked excitement. Plus, Earl had ruined my evening by informing me about catching chickens tonight, which spoiled my plans to go fishing at the spillway after supper. The time was ripe for me to do something and add fun to our ride. As we hit a fairly desolate stretch of Indian River Road, approaching Stumpy Lake Golf Course, I made my decision. Since the two-lane road had a few houses on one side and lots of trees on the other, I figured on climbing out of the passenger window and get into the back of the truck. Yes, I’ve admitted to being immature. Now you can add ‘stupid’ to my resume. Remember – ignore consequences and danger.

I glanced at Earl and then to the speedometer. We were doing forty. Earl never broke the speed limit, and was usually below it. I also noticed no cars behind or approaching us. So, without further ado, or rational thought, I stuck my head out the window, letting the wind blow my hair. Hearing nothing from Earl, I pushed up on the seat and perched on my knobby knees, grasping the inside of the cab. That’s when he said, “Bobby? What’cha ya doin’? Best get back in here, you might fall. You’re gonna get us both in trouble.” My dad would know it was me actin’ the fool.

I laughed and swung my left leg out the window. Amazing how limber we are at that age. “I’m goin’ to the back, Earl,” I hollered, the wind blowing out my cheeks like a balloon. I eased my foot down on the running board and looked at him. His eyes had grown to the size of saucers and his famous smile was gone. He downshifted and slowed.

“Bobby! Stop it now! Oh, Lord.”

“I’m okay, Earl. Watch.” I pulled my other leg out the window, and now I was riding on the other side of the door and loving every second. He began easing off to the side of the road. I had to move fast…and I did. I grabbed the side of the truck bed and swung my left leg over and pulled the rest of my boney body into the bed. “I made it, Earl! Keep goin’…I’ll ride back here!”

Earl brought the truck to a stop and leaned out his window. “Bobby, you could’a fallen and been killed. You can’t do that stuff…it’s dangerous. Oh, Lord, if’n you hurt yourself…oh, my, we’ll be in hot water.”

I leaned over the side, inches from his face. “Don’t tell anybody. I’ll ride back here and you can drop me off at the lane.”

Earl shook his head and whispered something I couldn’t hear. I figure he was prayin’. “Okay, but sit down. Don’t be jumpin’ around back there. Oh, Lord, Bobby.” I noticed he didn’t say, ‘that’s what I say’.

I plopped down and laughed as he pulled away toward home. I still think that was a neat move. But I don’t think Earl enjoyed it as much as I did.

Arriving at the farm, he pulled into our lane. I hopped out like a rabbit and stood beside his window. “Thanks, Earl. See ya tonight. I wanna ride in the back of the big truck with the coops. Bye,” I hollered as he backed out and drove off, shaking his head. See what I mean? Earl was a fun man to hang around. I may need to claim responsibility for several strands of his grey hair. Ah, makes him look more distinguished. That’s what I say.

Remember earlier, I mentioned playing baseball? I love the game and played up until I was thirty. So, I attribute a fraction of my ability to the following events, and Earl was present for each. Yep, my buddy, Earl. Enjoy in real time…you are there.

Climbing out the window of a moving truck soon lost its luster. You understand, keeping the attention of a young boy is hard to do, unless it’s a Playboy magazine found on the side of the road, but that’s another story.

So, being my brain still resided in the ‘immature’ category, I devised another fun thing to do on our drive home. All of these chickens I’ve mentioned were raised to produce eggs. We gathered, washed, candled (look it up if you don’t know what candling is), sized and put into cartons thousands of eggs at the feed store each day. This was another facet of the business I hated. You never caught up. When you were sleeping, the chickens were laying. They never took a vacation, but we did on Sundays, so Mondays we doubled our pleasure and doubled our fun. Right…there’s a double-barrel of monkeys.

Well, in the handling of eggs, as you can expect, some are cracked. Now you can’t sell cracked eggs as Grade A, so most are thrown away. However, when a young boy knows they’re going to be tossed, he figures, ‘Why can’t I toss ‘em…?’. I’ll admit, as an infielder throughout my career, I had one heck of an arm. Now I’ll share my secret.

One hot summer day, I knew ahead of time I would ride home with my buddy, Earl. So, with this tidbit of information, I took a ‘flat’ (square piece of dimpled cardboard holding two and a half dozen eggs) of cracked eggs and slipped them under the seat of the old International pickup. I had learned that the longer one invests in a particular plan, the better it turns out.

On this nice afternoon, Earl and I cruised down Indian River Road, laughing and talking like good buddies do. I always liked telling him something I thought he didn’t know, and his reply was always, ‘You don’t say’. This saying ran a close second to, ‘That’s what I say’. Anyway, I liked hearing it and invented stories to tell him just to hear, ‘You don’t say’.

As we approached Stumpy Lake Golf Course, I prepared to get in a little practice with my throwing arm. Thinking back, I can’t tell you why this creative venture entered my mind, but it did, and I completely ignored the fact my father played golf there. Ah, he won’t pay any attention to busted eggs on the big sign. Yeah right, he’s so dumb I wonder how he gets dressed and goes to work. Remember that age of ‘know-it-all’?

So, on the sly, I reached down to tie my tennis shoes, but really I eased out the flat of ammo. I cut an eye at Earl and noticed he wasn’t paying attention to me. Probably glad I remained inside the cab and was quiet.

Since I was fairly experienced at holding three eggs in one hand, I filled both hands. Before the hood of the truck neared the sign, I sat up. My right hand flung the three eggs out and up. In a flash, my left followed suit. The movement caught Earl’s attention, at the same time we heard, ‘plop, plop, plop, plop’. Two missed.

My laugh interrupted Earl saying, “Bobby! Don’t throw eggs at the sign! Oh, Lordy.”

I replied with a huge smile pasted to my face, “Ah, the rain’ll wash ‘em off, Earl.”

The kind man shook his head and eyed me. “If your daddy sees those eggs runnin’ down the sign when he comes by here, he’ll know you did it.”

I lost the smile because a question begged to get out. “How?”

“Nobody else down here at Stumpy Lake produces eggs - that’s how. Why in the world do you want to throw eggs? Oh, my, my, my.”

In the middle of a childish laugh, I said, “I’m practicin’ baseball.”

Earl released a deep groan. I’d never heard him do that. “Wait til you get home and you and Robert Butler can practice. Please don’t throw eggs from the truck. Somebody might see us. I could get a ticket.”

Well, to make a long story short, my throwing practice continued, but only when I rode with Earl. I didn’t do it every day because sometimes Earl checked under the seat before leaving the store. So, I became more creative, realizing I could only toss five eggs in one pass. I smuggled them under my shirt. Now that’s a tricky deal, pal. One wrong move and you’ve got yolk running into your drawers. How would I know that bit of info? Guess.

I’m figuring I placed thirty or forty eggs on the sign during that summer. I would have easily increased that number, but someone put a sudden stop to my practice. Can you guess? Well, you’re close. Here’s what happened.

One beautiful, late summer afternoon, I found myself riding home with my father. I’m not sure why, but I think Earl left early or something. I sure wish now I’d been riding with him. So, dad and I are riding down Indian River Road, and of course, I’d seen the egg residue splattered against the white and green sign every day we passed. It was like my trophy. I was mighty proud. I was stupid.

I know now that hot weather and sunshine do crazy things to egg yolk. Whoops, I’m getting ahead of my story. Anyway, as we approached my ‘over-easy’ creation, my dad slowed the car and pulled off the road directly in front of the sign and stopped. See, my decorations only appeared on the west side of the sign.

When he put the gearshift in ‘Park’, well, I knew something was up, and I quickly ruled out him asking if I’d like to learn to play golf. My dad looked up at the dark, now dark orange stains, dried in streaks, long runs and splatters covering the fancy hand-painted letters. “Son, you know what that is?” He pointed to my egg-work.

My stomach tightened as if gripped by a bear. My mouth suddenly became as dry as the baked yolks. I waited for my heart to explode, and prayed it would. “Looks like somebody threw a few eggs at the sign, Dad.” My voice scared me. It sounded high-pitched, like a girl.

He turned his serious focus from the ugly sign to me. “Who do you think would do something like that?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I thought it best not to go off on some imaginative whirlwind and try to convince my wise dad.

As cars and trucks whizzed past taking people home for supper, or fishing, or baseball practice, we sat and stared at my childish artwork. Funny how each time I nailed the sign, I got such a thrill, Earl got a stomach cramp, and now…more than my belly ached.

Finally, my dad said, “Who do you think lives down here with enough eggs to throw at a man’s business sign?”

Now he had turned this funny little act of mine…into a person…the man who ran the course. Nice move, Bobby. You’re in deep now. “Probably a bunch ‘a teenagers, Dad. Eggs are cheap.” I should’ve kept my mouth shut as tight as that dried yolk was to the sign. Was it tight? Yep, like paint. That’s what I say.

My dad didn’t buy my silly offer as who the culprit might be. Instead, he put the car in gear, drove us up to the clubhouse and told the manager ‘who’ had messed up his sign. I would have rather been neck deep in Mary Wenger’s chicken manure. I stared at my dirty tennis shoes until my eyes blurred. I wondered if the fun had been worth this. No!

The following morning, dad dropped me off at the golf course with a bucket, soap, ladder, rags, and a scraper. No point describing how I spent my day. But feel free to rule out fishing in the lake, playing golf or baseball. The golf course sign looked like new when dad picked me up that afternoon. Then I went home and had the privilege of cutting grass until dark. See, how can I forget those days? I don’t want to.

Every time I pass the course and look at the sign, I think of my child-like actions, my friend Earl, and my dad. Today those memories are precious. “That’s what I say.”

Of all the people I’ve met throughout my life, and there’s been a bunch, a select few hover at the top. When you’re touched by their laughter, their kind actions, their extraordinary character, you learn as you mature they are very special. With this unique bond, you don’t have to visit or talk with them every week, every year, or even for years, because they are a part of your life. When the opportunity or a remembrance of this person arises, it’s like the first fragrance of springtime.

The times are numerous when I’ve thought of Earl McClain. Each time I do, I smile, or tell one of my stories, or wonder how he’s doing. I rate Earl at the top of my list of quality men. He’s a God-loving man, a wonderful father, husband, and grandfather. Earl will always be my friend.

On February 9, 2010, Earl will turn 94. “Happy birthday, friend. God Bless you and your family. Thank you for the memories. That’s what I say.”

THE END

PS. Mr. Earl McClain departed this earth for his eternal home in Heaven on January 31, 2012. He will be missed by his loving family and a multitude of friends. But Heaven will receive a very special man. “See ya later, Earl. I know you’re smilin’…”