Native Sons

PROLOGUE

1926 Ware County Georgia Wire Grass Country.

Joe Morris thought there was no better place for the Salem Cemetery than the bare bones sand hill it occupied. Sandspurs, cockleburs and prickly pear cactus lurked along the paths that weaved between the tombstones. Sandhill Cranes honked and hooted far above in the cool blue sky nearing their winter home in the great swamp okefenokee. The melancholy calls of the wildlife suited that solemn cemetery very well where two of Joe’s little brothers’ lay. One the size of a large sweet potato and the other the size of a peanut rested in wood caskets no larger than shoe boxes.
It was generally believed the birth of a first born child would be the most difficult, with those siblings to follow delivered with deliberate ease. The midwife was elated over the uncomplicated way Joe entered the world. This highly opinionated nurse would not hear of a male doctor being in attendance.
Joe was two and a half years old when his brother was born, only to give up life with a yawn. The boy his mama named Chester took a hasty breath opened his eyes then closed them with a shudder as if deciding the world was not for him. The midwife held the red wrinkled boy, blowing into his face and patted his back. One breath flickered and his eyes blinked once and closed. The premature child went out like a candle after first being lighted. Joe was instructed to stay in the yard away from the birth room. The worried little boy sat on the dirt next to the warm bricks of the chimney in the cold lengthening shadows of his house. Numerous inverted cone shaped ant lion traps spread around his feet in the dusty dirt under the thick supporting beams.
His daddy J.L. watched the door waiting to hear the crying of a newborn son or daughter but it never came. In spite of the midwifes’ stern disapproval J.L. went into the birth room. He held and kissed the cold child before going to his wife Sarah.
J.L. felt helpless and of no consequence to the birth drama that developed in the bed where his child had been conceived.
“I won’t leave you Sarah.” Tears streaked down his face for the loss of his son and a sense of overpowering empathy he felt for his wife.
The midwife pulled Sarah’s nightdress over her knees wrapped the afterbirth in an old rag and continued to soak up the blood. She glanced up at J.L. with a bemused look that told him he had no business in the room. A birthroom was no place for a man husband or not!
“J.L., go see about Joe and bring him to the door so I can speak to him. When I am ready bring him to my bed; I want to see him, I want to touch him.” Sarah said with a hoarse whisper. She had a clear yearning to feel the warm living body of her son. She stroked the hands of her husband who seemed capable of dissolving his being into that of her heart rending turmoil.
Below Chester’s name on the liter wood grave marker was carved the solemn but wise ‘God knows best.’
When Joe was four years old his mama was expecting once again. He was in the field with his daddy picking June bugs off tobacco leaves when he was sent home to see about her. Light from the early slanting sun peeking in the doorway glanced off bright red drops of blood that greeted his young eyes on the linoleum floor. “Go get your daddy Joe tell him to come home, I need him.” She fought to hold the tears back; for fear of frightening him. But she didn’t know he was already frightened; he had seen the blood. Before he could leave he heard her say, “Oh God please don’t take this child.” Joe would have liked for her to hold him because he was her child too and he was afraid but he did as he was told. On that occasion J.L. sent for the doctor to assist the midwife.
The gentle old country doctor near death himself was able to confirm with professional certitude the peanut sized premature child was a boy.