Finding Roland McCray

What others have said

Blaine Coleman’s writing is reminiscent of Ray Bradbury, especially the novel Dandelion Wine.

"Roland’s imagination and empathy, the vibrant descriptions and the way the story is told makes this book special to me."

"Parable-like tales told in a lyrical style that makes life events feel like a fairy tale."

"Before you know it, you as the reader are swept into a colorful, dramatic, and ultimately satisfying emotional truth."

"This author opens his hands and reveals highly polished pearls."

Coleman's writing is both nostalgic and edifying. These parables will tug at your heart and foment the qualms and skepticism you once had during your own adolescence.

Finding Roland McCray

The Adventures of Roland McCray

3rd Edition

Blaine Coleman

Text and Artwork copyright 2014 Blaine Coleman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

These short stories draw the reader in to the unique and often innocent worldview of a boy growing up and coming of age in the south, and allow the reader to see Roland’s life from childhood through to the age where he is no longer a child, and not yet an adult. We see through Roland’s eyes his struggles to find meaning in a world riddled with daily deceits and misdirection that conflict with his own values. In Roland McCray’s search for truth in life, he finds his own path to God. His views on southern culture, pastimes, and religion are often innocent and always unique as he tries to avoid the brambles, the lies and vanities, the worldly traps that keep people from finding Truth. Roland’s true quest is for spiritual growth, and in the tradition of classic Americana, Roland McCray carries the reader into his world through his depth of character and vivid descriptive imagery.

This book is are dedicated to all who love literature and classic storytelling.

§

These ‘Roland McCray’ books would not have been possible without the editing assistance and advice of others. I want to thank Anita Young for reading and suggesting edits on the final draft, and Heather Curran for her excellent editing advice with writing and crafting these stories, Gail Geiwont for being brutally helpful, Jerry Bryson, Jarod D. Crews and Paul Ellis for their encouragement and invaluable input in completing this book you’re about to read. And a special thanks to Steve Johnson for tirelessly reading these stories and searching out my many grammatical errors and typos.

Table of Contents

Crater Hill

My Wheel

Poke It with A Stick

Butterflies

Walls

Oak Grove Baptist Church

Snake on A Fence

Of Cults and Klans

Moving Day

Susie

The Wood Duck

A Boy and His Dog

Saturday Night at the Drive-in

The Meteor Shower

And When I got Home

End

The trouble with life isn't that there is no answer, it's that there are so many answers.

Ruth Benedict

Crater Hill

When I was young, my Mom took me and my sisters to church services at Crater Hill Baptist. It was a small place- just a little white clapboard church that sat on a hill across the road from Crater National Battlefield Park. I hated going to preaching; the chapel was always crowded, warm and stuffy, and we’d have to sit still while the preacher droned on and on. It was bad enough that I could only hear about half of what he was saying, but what made it worse was that sometimes it seemed like he’d never finish the sermon.

The church was in walking distance of our house, which Dad liked; he didn't go to church, anyway, and was glad that Mom wasn’t putting miles on the car just to go to preaching. And I liked the church being close, too, because that meant we only had to go when it wasn’t raining or too cold out.

Crater Hill Baptist wasn’t big enough to have a Sunday school, but every summer the church held a two week long Vacation Bible School out on the lawn and it was open to everyone. They’d spread blankets on the grass for us to sit on, and a church volunteer would open a Bible story book and show us the illustrations while reading a story; we were allowed to ask questions, if anyone wanted to, after the story was finished. One day, Mrs. Brown (our volunteer that day) read us the story about Noah’s Ark, and then showed us the pictures; the first showed Noah and his sons building the Ark, the second, a line of animals walking two by two into the ark, and the last one showed a crowd of terrified people running towards the Ark, a flood of water sweeping in behind them, and Noah standing on the deck, watching while the people were swept away.

Mrs. Brown, I said.

Yes, Roland?

Why did Noah only save the animals, but sealed the door so none of the people could get on it?

Because all of those people were wicked, she said. God saved Noah and his family because Noah was a good man: he was the only good man God could find.

So, there wasn’t anybody else good in the whole world?

Did you even listen to the story, Roland? God knows what is in the heart; He knows who is good and who isn’t. People might fool each other, but no one fools God. And Noah was the only man faithful to Him. But after the forty days and forty nights of rain ended, all the wicked were cleansed from the earth and God promised He would never again destroy the world with another flood. And he gave Noah a rainbow as a sign to remind us of the flood, of the wickedness that brought it down on all of the Earth.

Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Brown. If nothing else, I was taught to always be polite. But after hearing that story, anytime it rained and kept raining for two or three days, or a week, the way it sometimes did, I’d think of Noah and his ark, and worry that I might be one of the people left behind. And I still really wasn’t sure what the story about Noah and his Ark meant, except maybe to explain why we have rainbows.

I liked the stories about Jesus the best, though. It seems like he was always walking from place to place, kind of the way my grandfather was always ambling around his neighborhood, visiting his friends and relatives who lived nearby. But Jesus wasn’t visiting friends, the way my grandpa did; He was teaching the crowds of people who followed him, and healing the sick and the lame. My favorite story was about a day when Jesus was teaching and healing people and a lot of parents sent their kids over to Jesus so he could bless them. But his followers told the parents to stop doing that, because Jesus was busy with His work and shouldn’t be distracted by a bunch of kids, but Jesus was angry with those who tried to send the kids away. He said to let the children come to him, because the Kingdom of Heaven was theirs, too. The picture with that story showed Jesus dressed all in white and sitting on a garden bench surrounded by flowers. Children of all ages sat with him, on his lap and beside him on the bench, on the ground at his feet, and others stood close enough to hear Jesus speaking. My grandmother had the same picture, larger, and framed, hanging in her home and I thought it was the prettiest picture I’d ever seen.

After story time, we’d all get cookies and punch, of course, or sometimes even popsicles, so a lot of kids from my neighborhood would go to Vacation Bible School, even though most of them didn’t have to attend preaching.

The church held its Bible School in June every year, which was a good thing, since any later in the summer in southeastern Virginia, it would be too hot to be out in the sun for hours. I’d just sit on one of the blankets spread out over the grass, feel the warm sun on my face and a light, cooling breeze off the field in the Battlefield Park across the road. The park was a great place for flying kites and there would usually be people doing just that. Some people flew fancy, colorful box kites, which I thought were really neat, but most of the kites were simple, brightly-colored paper kites with two crossed ribs and a tail made of knotted cloth, the same kind I had. And since that field was the only place near my neighborhood without power lines or trees in the way, a lot of times me and the other guys flew our kites in that field, too.

And that field was huge! Dad said it was a half mile long and about half that wide. The park service only cut the grass three times a season, so it was always about knee high. The field sloped down to where some brush and low trees grew alongside a small stream that trickled through the middle, and then the open, grassy area sloped back up to a line of old cedar trees. Behind those cedars were the flat tops of earthen ramparts that once surrounded a Confederate camp during the Civil War. Earthworks like those were common in the area; the sites of Confederate encampments were everywhere in southeast Virginia, and most of them weren't even marked. But the ones at Crater National Battlefield Park were protected because they surrounded the bomb crater, a huge hole in the ground that marked the place where the last fort protecting Petersburg fell to the Union Army's advance, and the park was built around the site of that fort.

The other guys and I liked to ride bikes on the park road and sometimes up to the crater. Signs were posted all around to warn people to stay off the earthworks, to prevent erosion, but of course we didn't pay any attention to them; the flat tops and steep sides of the earthworks were more fun to ride bikes on than any place we had in the neighborhood!

I liked to ride my bike up onto the ramparts and to the crest on the highest side of the Crater. Then I'd roll my bike forward, over the edge and drop, almost free falling into the pit, ever faster, with the wind in my face as the path came up to meet me, and leveled, but by then I'd have enough momentum to make it up the other side. I’d crest the rim, seeing only sky for a few moments before my bike wheels hit the gravel and I'd laugh, for the sheer joy of the ride, I'd laugh as I skidded my bike to a stop. That was the closest I could get to actual flying, and I loved it!

Then, I'd coast down the hill on the gravel path, warm sunshine alternating with the sudden coolness of deep shade from huge, old cedar trees. The path ran alongside the old tunnel, or what was left of it; flat areas were separated by long depressions in the earth where the tunnel roof had collapsed in the explosion. The original tunnel entrance was in a ravine at the bottom of the hill and the Park service had put cement-filled sandbags on each side of the ravine to replace the long gone sandbags originally used, along with a set of timber steps with handrail that led down into the ravine and then up the other side.

The original tunnel entrance was blocked off with a steel grate to keep kids like us from trying to get inside it. The railing kept tourists from getting too close to the tunnel (it didn’t keep us away from it, though), and there was a metal box on a post with a button that could be pushed to hear a recorded narration of what happened in the battle. Most of what I knew about the crater I learned from that recorded message the Park Service had provided.

It was the fourth year of the war and Petersburg still hadn’t fallen to the Union Army. The city was surrounded by Confederate forts and the Union Army was having trouble resupplying units deep in enemy territory, so it really needed to take Petersburg. The siege on the city was into its tenth month, and the Confederate camp on top of the hill above the tunnel entrance was the last of a ring of forts that had protected the city. Desperate to capture Petersburg and shorten the war, the Union Army needed a new plan. They gave up on direct attacks and instead tunneled three hundred yards into the hillside, working quietly and only at night. The soil excavated from the digging was brought out on small mine carts and dumped into a ravine where a creek ran through the woods so it wouldn't be seen from the fort during the day. The park service had laid railroad ties into the ground like the original ones that had served as a path to empty the soil-laden carts into the ravine.

When the tunnel was finally completed, the Union Army detonated two thousand pounds of dynamite directly below the Confederate fort, and the blast hurled six hundred cubic yards of earth into the morning sky. The crater left by the explosion was so large that more than a century of thunderstorms, fallen leaves, and erosion hadn’t healed the wound in the earth; it was still sixty feet across and more than half that deep.

The recording said that despite the Union Army’s effort, they made the mistake of setting off the explosion early on a Sunday morning because the Northern soldiers thought the rebels would all be sleeping. But, they were wrong; the Union Army didn’t know that most of the Confederate soldiers would sneak into town through the woods late Saturday night to attend church with their families, and then sneak back to the fort under the cover of darkness the next evening, so not many soldiers were in the fort on Sunday mornings.

The first time I listened to that recording, I looked up toward the flat-top hill that marked the Crater. I tried to imagine what it must have been like that bright, horrible, Sunday morning. The recording said that the explosion first caused the ground under the fort to heave, and then it was still for about half a second. For half a second, the ground was still; I wondered what went through the minds of the few soldiers in the camp during that half second. Then, the ground lifted into the sky, launching the log palisades hundreds of feet high as the camp barracks heaved in unison, and everything tumbled back to earth like a hand full of shattered Lincoln logs. I pictured shreds of the Lieutenant’s tent floating in the breeze, falling through the air like dead leaves, the Rebel flag tattered or burned to ash.

It was a stunning attack, and even though not many rebels were killed in the explosion, it was still a Union victory; the last fort protecting Petersburg was nothing more than a smoking bomb crater, and it wasn't long before the Union Army captured Petersburg and that was the beginning of the end for the rebellious states. Less than a year later, General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox. The Civil War, the recording said, was an act of betrayal, a terrible thing that had sometimes turned brother against brother, father against son.

I already knew war was bad; the Vietnam War was on the news every evening, and though my Dad didn't want us to watch that part of the broadcast, sometimes I did, anyway. I saw the bloodied and bandaged, the official number of soldiers killed that day, and, on occasion, they’d show flag-draped caskets being unloaded from military cargo planes.

There were usually people flying kites in that field, that battlefield, across from the church; it was right behind our neighborhood, so sometimes I’d fly my kite over there, too. Large open areas are always windy, and the wind in that field never failed, which made it a great place for kite flying. As winds swept through the tall grasses, the low, sloping hills seemed to change color the way velvet does when you run your hand over it.

I didn't know why the church was named after a Civil War battle, a war that was a terrible betrayal, but I guess I didn't really care; I still liked the summer mornings I spent at Vacation Bible School, the stories we were told, the cookies and Kool-Aid, and the fact that my friends from the neighborhood were there, too.

My Dad said that the hill where the church was built is called Crater Hill because General Robert E. Lee stood there and watched the battle that created the crater. He also said that that was a local legend and he didn’t know if it was true or not.

One of the stories read to us was about something called the Rapture, when Jesus would be waiting in the big, fluffy, white clouds and all the people would meet Him in the air, and I loved the idea that, someday, we’d all fly!

While listening to the story about the Rapture, I watched the kites in the sky and one of them lost its hold on the air and began to fall. I thought then of shredded army tents and the tattered, burning flag drifting on the wind as the broken timbers from the stockade had tumbled to the ground in that same spot a century before. But the other kites weren’t tumbling from the sky, they were dancing against the clouds. It would be a great thing to be able to fly, but I wanted to fly higher than those kites, a whole lot higher- to soar all the way up to the clouds, free from the strings that kept the kites anchored to the ground.

Maybe when the Rapture comes, I’ll be up there, too, with the flying people, free from the strings that tie us to the ground, and we’d be able to look down on those kites from above. I really hope that will happen to me.

We wander but in the end there is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.

Ugo Betti

My Wheel

I’d just got my bike out of the garage and was wheeling it toward the driveway when Grandpa came out the kitchen door.

Getting your wheel out, boy?

Yeah, Grandpa, I said. I got my bicycle. I don’t know why he always called my bicycle a wheel; I’d told him before that it has two wheels but he’d just kind of laughed and tousled my hair.

I know that, he’d told me. I had a wheel, too, when I was young. But I was a lot older than you when I got mine.

I was gonna ride it up and down the driveway for a while, I guess. I shrugged. But if you’re going for a walk, I want to go with you. Most days Grandpa took a morning walk and that gave me chance to get out of the yard, too.

.

My grandparents lived about an hour away from us, in the same house they’d bought when they got married and I stayed with them a couple weeks every summer. Because there weren’t any kids in their neighborhood, or at least none who I knew, they let me bring my bike along so I’d have something to do. But Grandma wouldn’t let me leave the yard by myself, so I could only ride it on the driveway, which was better than nothing but it got boring real fast. She was afraid I might get lost, or something, and not know how to get back to their house. Like that was going to happen- I was eight years old! At home I could ride all around my neighborhood with my friends, anytime I wanted, but here I had to stay in the yard.

That’s why I asked you if you were getting your wheel, Grandpa said. I think I’m going to amble on over and visit with Roscoe for a while. Thought you might want to go with me. He looked at the sky for a minute. The morning mist was already burning off and there were only a few small white clouds in the distance. Before the sun gets up higher and it’s too hot for us to be out in it.

I’d told Grandpa that the sun is a star and that stars are always hot, not just when it was high in the sky, but he didn’t listen. Grandpa knew I liked going with him when he ambled over to see his brother, Roscoe, who lived a couple streets over, or even down to the store on the corner. Mostly, though, I just wanted to ride my bike somewhere other than on my grandparent’s driveway.

Well, come on, then, he said and started around the house toward the road out front. Grandpa didn’t move fast, but he didn’t waste any time, either.

I’m coming, I said. I got on my bike and pedaled across the yard to the street, waited for Grandpa, and then coasted down the hill in front of the house to the corner at the next street. While sitting on my bike waiting for Grandpa to make it down the hill, I watched a swarm of June bugs flying around in the yard across the street.

The first time I saw June bugs was when they were flying around a neighbor’s yard near my house and I thought they were bees, so I wouldn’t go near them. Then my friend, Butch, told me they were some kind of beetle, not bees, and he caught one in his hand to show me they don’t sting. They had shiny green backs and looked a lot like the Japanese beetles that ate Grandma’s rose bushes, but June bugs were a lot bigger. Butch showed me how to tie a piece of thread to one of the beetle’s back legs and let it fly around while I walked holding the other end of the thread. It was fun doing that, until the June bug’s leg came off and we had to catch another one.

I sat there on my bike until Grandpa caught up, and then rode a little ways up the street on the left and circled my bike around to wait for him. Grandpa walked kind of slow, so I guess that must be what he meant when he said he was going to amble over to Roscoe’s or down to the store. I really didn’t care where Grandpa was going ambling as long as I went with him, too.

The sun wasn’t up very high yet, but it was getting kind of hot already and Grandpa wiped his forehead with the white handkerchief he had with him. He was wearing his straw hat that he kept on a hook outside his back door; he never went outside without putting it on first. He said that the hat helped him keep cooler and that I should wear one, too, but I never did. I didn’t see how wearing a hat in the summertime would keep you cooler!

When I got to the next street corner, I stopped to wait for Grandpa. Mister Genetti was out in his yard trimming his rose bushes. He looked up with a friendly smile and waved his hand.

Good morning, Roland.

Hi, Mr. Genetti.

Taking a walk with your grandfather?

Yes, sir, I said. He’s right behind me.

Well, you’ve got a good morning for it, he said as he looked at the sky. But it’s going to be a hot one this afternoon when that sun’s right overhead. Mr. Genetti must think the sun’s only hot when it’s up high, too, but other than Grandpa I’d never tell a grownup that the sun is always hot; Grandma would say I was being ugly if I talked back to grownups.

Grandma said that Mister Genetti is a foreigner, and from the way she said it I could tell she doesn’t think much of foreigners, but Grandpa didn’t seem to mind. He spoke to all the neighbors, and said more than once that Mister Genetti grew some beautiful roses and he always kept a mighty fine yard.

We crossed the street at that corner and there were only two more blocks to go to get to Uncle Roscoe’s. Uncle Roscoe and Aunt Virginia kept a nice vegetable garden, like Grandma and Grandpa did, but Uncle Roscoe’s was a lot bigger. He also had a flower garden where he grew some real pretty flowers and he even had a stand out front where he sold vegetables and some of his flowers, too. He was out in the garden working the ground around the tomato plants with his hoe fork when we got there and he told us to give him a few minutes to put his tools in the garden shed. We went up on the porch in the shade