Forver Friends

When I was growing up, a guy named Jonathan was my best friend, and he and his brothers went out to Mr. Henry’s farm north of Tallahassee, Florida every Saturday morning. Their friends were all welcome. There was a creek winding through a large wood, many acres of fields, a old lime house stacked high with hay (good for jumping off rafters into the dusty hay or making tunnels underneath it), a couple of bolt-action .22 rifles for target practice. Mostly we goofed off, but when there was work to be done, we were happy to pitch in and help.

I learned how to put out a grass fire, how to put up tight, barbed-wire fences, avoid stepping on cotton mouths and copperheads, hay cattle, and knock a Coke can off a fence post with a .22 short. I learned a lot more–the value of Mr. Henry’s unlimited and gentle hospitality and that the fields of our youth tend to grow smaller in time.

Mr. Henry stopped at Jonathan’s house every Saturday morning in his old black car and picked everyone up. He always had a box of sticky buns from a local bakery. He was there rain or shine. I went more often than not. On those days when I slept late, had chores, or was out of town, the weekend just never felt quite right. Jonathan’s father was a doctor and had, in fact, saved Mr. Henry’s life. Our Saturday morning trips to the farm were the only way he knew to give something back. He was, I thought, a special person just for thinking of the idea–and that he never missed a Saturday during those years was a lesson for me in dedication and follow-through.

I hadn’t thought of these Saturday morning trips for a while until an online group of writers I hang out with decided to print Forever Friends, an anthology of our work, our poems and short stories. I’m not much of a poet, but one of my rare attempts called “Debt, Paid in Full” was included. The poem didn’t come out too badly. I only wish Mr. Henry was still around to read it. Looking back, I hope I remembered to thank him and say goodbye when I went off to college and join the Navy.