God’s Farm … A Story. Five.

3 May

 

 

 

God’s Farm … A Story

Five.

Chandler pickup up Billy for the meeting. Along the way they caught up. They had once lived next door to each other, and were like Yin and Yang as friends. Chandler was more athletic — always the aspiring quarterback type; Billy was less agile, bulkier, and more the grind-it-out lineman type. Chandler loved the beach — Holden and Ocean Isle. Billy, some lake in upper New York where the swimsuits were skimpy.

Even though Chandler’s parents were from Minnesota, he was a Dixie boy in the sense everything he saw on TV, like The Rebel and The Gray Ghost, which romanticized the South and vilified the North and the Yankees. He made no connection at the time with the horrors of slavery.

Billy’s father traced their lineage back to William Tecumseh Sherman. Chandler bit his lip whenever his friend brought that up. And he kept mum that his own father alleged their heritage traced back to Ulysses S. Grant. The alcoholic president. A Yankee.

But they were pals despite the differences, and it felt good to Chandler to reconnect. Billy understood Chandler’s need to do something. He had also mildly protested on the campus of Guilford College in Greensboro, where he was a freshman. He had repeated a year at Randolph Macon Military Academy prep school, otherwise he and Chandler were the same age.

“So what’s your plan?” asked Billy.

“I don’t really have one. Figured we’d go to the meeting and see what’s going on. You remember Alice Price?”

“Not really. A vague memory at best.”

“Her dad’s church bought the house I used to live in before I moved next door to you.”

“Yeah? She a babe?”

“Not that I can remember. Studied a lot. Wore glasses.”

“Oh. About my speed, then.”

Chandler laughed as they pulled into a space in the St. Mary’s Episcopal parking lot, and wandered about the church until finally being directed to the sanctuary. The meeting was already in progress. As they entered and the doors closed with a loud click, all eyes momentarily turned toward the duo. Chandler and Billy quickly found seats and the meeting continued.

“I will need to know by Monday who can commit to the trip. We will either provide the church van for transportation, or if there is overwhelming response, which I truly hope there is, we will charter a bus and there will be a charge for that, which would be more than the expense of the van, of course.”

A slim blonde, wearing thin-rimmed glasses, addressed a handful of people seated in the pews in front of her. Chandler recognized her to be Ann Price. Other than her living in his old house and the time he showed up on the doorstep of the Colonial residence to see “the old place,” he had not had much contact with her. During junior high he had never considered her or regarded her to be more than a studious and dutiful preacher’s kid. He was a bit surprised at her organized and officious manners, though she was still a bit stiff, he thought. He didn’t recognize any of the people gathered.

Off to the right, somewhat isolated from the main grouping of people, sat a balding man, dressed in shirt and tie. He was flanked by kids Chandler judged to be about his age, or perhaps younger, and dressed in a way he knew they were not from Emerywood. A teenage girl with long blonde hair, a skinny curly redhead, a black kid with an Afro and another burly kid with bushy hair comprised the band of obvious tagalongs.

Chandler raised his hand.

“A question? Oh, hi, Chandler!” Price recognized him. He stood nervously.

“Hi, Ann. What’s the purpose?”

She smiled patiently. “The purpose of what?”

“Of going to Washington. I know I came in late, and maybe you already covered that.”

Obviously a little irked at the interruption, Price gathered her thoughts.

“It is to demand that our government address several very important issues. Being there in person will help to flesh out the reality to our elected officials that we cannot as a nation continue along this path.”

“Which path?”

“You don’t know? Where’ve you been? The path to peace in Vietnam! The path to peace in the rights of black Americans! The equalization of women to men in terms of opportunity!”

Ah, he thought. The very triumvirate he had highlighted in his Shakespeare final exam.

“And you expect the politicians in Washington to even listen, much less respond?” Chandler’s father had at least taught him that politicians were in it for themselves. Less government the better. His dad’s favorite quote was Mark Twain’s: Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason. He had struck a chord with Price, who was now more than a bit flustered.

“Do you have a better way? I mean by going to Washington at least the media will cover it. What bright plan do you have?”

“Well, it strikes me that you can’t have peace in the world, or peace in the country, until you have peace in the community.”

An uncomfortable pause filled the sanctuary.

He continued. “Look, I watched the protests on my campus this year. What has changed? We’re still in ‘Nam. Whites and blacks are still alienated. And the only thing the bra burning did was to pollute the air — which seems a bit ironic if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked,” Price said louder than she meant.

“Spend your energy organizing efforts to bridge these gaps here in High Point.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“I don’t know! I’m new to this.”

“Obviously. Well, Chandler, I’m sure we all appreciate your thoughts and wisdom on the matter, but the fact is, we are going to Washington. We don’t have the time nor do we have the inclination to sidetrack from our original goal, which is, to go to Washington. Other than going to Washington, we will not be getting involved locally.”

Each time she said “going to” or “to go to” Price slowed down and enunciated the words, so that Chandler might understand that Washington was the intent. Chandler sat down, effectively put down.

In his defense, Billy stood and said a few choice words in the direction of Price that were more than angry, then sat, satisfied he had at least exercised his coveted right to express his opinion.

“Well!” she responded uncomfortably, “If there is no more discussion,” where she paused, and there were no other hands raised, “get back to me ASAP regarding your plans to go to Washington’ — (again with exaggerated emphasis) — and we will see you soon!”

Before Chandler could get to her to apologize for his disrupting the meeting, Price disappeared among the group that milled about her, perhaps to protect her, he thought. He and Billy stood and shrugged at each other as the balding man and his motley entourage approached. The man stuck out his hand to Chandler.

“I’m Tom Kirby,” he said, and Chandler shook his hand.

“Chandler. Chandler Wilson. This is my friend Billy.”

“Hello, Billy.” The man shook Billy’s hand.

“Hi.”

“Chandler, what you had to say today is very interesting to me. Ever hear of the Kum Ba Ya?”

“I know the song.”

“I’m the director. We have an outreach ministry to the community that normally no one cares about. Kind of like what you were talking about in the meeting. We’re down on Greene in a warehouse the city lets us use. Think you can drop by some time? I’d like to talk to you about your ideas and where you’re coming from.”

“Sure.”

Kirby handed Chandler a business card.

“Give me a call soon and we’ll set up a time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What about you, Billy? Interested?”

“Nah, not really. I’m here for moral support. I’m the kind of guy who would go to Washington to listen to the music.”

“At least you’re honest. Which is a rarity in Washington, by the way. See you guys.”

Kirby passed by and out of the church with his band of follows. The blonde girl had the redhead boy by the arm and was whispering nonstop in his ear. The redhead laughed out loud and turned back to look at Chandler, then winked and laughed again.

Later Chandler found out what the girl had said to the redhead that made him laugh.

“That’s the guy I’m going to marry!”

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