‘Tell your mama your daddy will be late for supper’ and other random thoughts

Posted: Friday, November 6, 2009 8:01 pm
By: John Brannon Messenger Staff Reporter

 Occasionally, in books I own, I pen impromptu diary-like entries. I write them as if making another entry in a personal journal. Recording my topic of the moment allows me to vent my thoughts. I tell myself that maybe someday my son and daughters — John Jr., Jennifer and Christie — will inherit my books and discover my graffiti. I mention this as a lead-in to a couple of entries I made in a copy of John Steinbeck’s great book, “The Grapes of Wrath.” I bought the book at a yard sale. I paid $3 for it. I’ve read it at least four times and still go back to his stellar story. How I wish I could have met him … but that’s another story in itself. Here are the two entries I penned, one on page 619, one on page 121. • Entry No. 1. Oct. 23, 1992. “I was 15 when he drove into the yard in his white 1956 Chevrolet. Everybody knew him and knew his car. I knew who it was as soon as he turned in and stopped. He didn’t get out. Just sat there with the motor running. He motioned me over to him. I went and stood there. He said, just matter-of-factly, ‘Go tell your mama that your daddy’s had a brain hemorrhage. He’s not expected to live but about 30 minutes. He’s uptown at the clinic. That’s where they got him. You go tell her.’ “He might as well have said, ‘Go tell your mama I need a dozen eggs.’ Or, ‘Go tell your mama that your daddy will be late for supper.’ “Just like that, he told me about my father. He never got out of his car. He never said, ‘I’m sorry,’ or anything. He just put his white Chevrolet in reverse, backed out onto the road and went back to town. “I went in the house and told her what the city marshal had just said.” How did she take it? Words don’t adequately describe her reaction to the news. I hated to have to be the one to tell her. I continue the entry: “His name was (deleted) and he was a natural-born gold-plated (fill in the blanks).” • Entry No. 2. Dec. 17, 1993. “Another entry on these pages about (deleted). He was city marshal in the town where I grew up. It was — is — a little place in north central Mississippi. It had no police force back then: just him in the day and a World War II veteran known as ‘Pop’ England. Pop was night watchman for the town. “The marshall was the persona of the law. He was THE law. And he knew it. He busted many a head. He was mean. Maybe he had to be. I saw the many souvenirs he’d collected. They were mounted all over the walls in his house. Brass knuckles, pistols, knives, (straight) razors, switchblades, shotguns. Just about every implement to maim or kill was represented on his walls. “Well, he was marshal many years, and one day he fell dead right beside his beloved 1956 Chevrolet. More details As an insight into this story, I must tell you that: • One day, the city marshal chased a speeder through town and finally pulled him over on Highway 82 just outside the city limits. They tell us he got out of the beloved 1956 Chevrolet — he allowed no one but himself to drive it — and took two steps toward the speeder’s car and keeled over. Heart attack? Probably. • ‘Pop’ England was ideally suited for his night watchman job. He was a short, heavy-set man whose lips wore tobacco stains. Seems he always had a pipe in his mouth, was always puffing away on it. He was a big man but he moved like a cat on the prowl. He slipped in and out of buildings and through alleys as quiet as ashes falling off a cigarette. To us teenage boys in the town, he was a terror. The word had gone forth among all of us: “Never, never, call him Pop to his face. You’ll be sorry.” So, yes, we steered clear of him. All this I tell you of memories and images from 50 years ago still lodged in my head. How some things linger. Reporter John Brannon may be contacted by e-mail at jbrannon@ucmessenger.com. Published in The Messenger 11.6.09