The only name I ever knew him by was, Cannonball. He must have been old, or so it seemed. He didn't hold a job. He rambled about the neighborhood looking for someone to talk to. He lived in a little shack trailer with a built-on lean-to. Nighttime showed a dim light in the greasy, grime coated windows. The trailer sat underneath ancient live oaks that had allowed a buildup of green moss growing in streaks down the sides. Resurrection fern grew on the roof. When the rains came it stood regal, tall, green and beautiful. Dry spells caused it to lay flat and brownish.
He owned an old rust-coated washing machine that was filled from inside the trailer by a garden hose that connected through a hole in the window screen. The washer sat outside the lean-to, as did a velour fabric-covered recliner. The velour was rubbed down to the backing on the arms and seat edges. It tilted. It must have been a rust-orange color in its heyday…
I watched him sit and look at life pass by from that chair. He was lonely and alone. His family was broken and scattered and neglectful. He wore glasses with “coke bottle” lenses. Amber frames with one useable temple. The other was connected to his ear with a shoe lace. The glasses sat "allegaplin'” on his nose bridge. I supposed it made no difference, as the lenses were coated with tobacco smoke residue and what seemed to be years of personal hygiene neglect. He wore, year-round, an old faux-suede jacket. The collar, once corduroy, now tattered to tangles. He dipped snuff. Most of it wasted in the creases along his jaw and chin line. His fingernails curled, thick and yellowed. He reeked.
Cannonball.
It was a hot & humid summer day. He was washing his clothes and laying them to dry on the stubbled hedges around the trailer. Two little pissants from across the street decided to have some fun at his expense. I briefly noticed them crossing the street as I was working in my flower beds. Stopping when I heard laughing from the pissants and curses from the old man. I stand and see them spraying him with his own water hose.
"By damn pissants!"
I go through the yard gate and sprint towards those little ruffians. My vision blurred by anger, I grab one by the nape and put knuckle to skull.
Surprise!
The pissants run home and stand on the porch to watch across as I talk to him. He is crying and wiping his rheumy old eyes. He was a sad sight. I felt his pain. I still feel his pain. But…
I calm him and help him finish filling his washer. He settles, I settle. I start back across the street as the pissants scramble back into their house. I'm having none of it; my job isn't finished. I call them out, lecture them on how much they hurt his feelings and suggest they go apologize now or when their parents get home…their choice. The pissants slither back with me in tow. They say "Sorry." I tell them to shake his hand and call him "Mr. Cannonball."
Our family gave Cannonball his last Christmas gift of a new Schick Razor and a book package of LifeSavers candies. He loved LifeSavers. I enjoyed watching the pissants helping "Mr. Cannonball" fill his washer and sit, talk and laugh several times before he died a few months later. My newborn baby boy Jon and I were the only ones outside his own family that attended his funeral.
***I dreamed about Cannonball last night, and so decided to write this story today. I wonder if the pissants have grown into men of character and have little pissants of their own. I wonder if they remember a wild-eyed neighbor putting a knuckle knock on their noggins. I wonder if they remember Cannonball. I wonder if my part in helping to raise a village was worth the effort? I hope they understand what my action stood for. I hope they remember me and Cannonball as happy memories.***
RIP CANNONBALL!
Earline’s first book “Life With the Top Down” is now available for sale in paperback at: http://www.lulu.com/shop/earline-crews/life-with-the-top-down/paperback/product-24146318.html
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