Thursday, October 31, 2019

Miss Birdie and the Hereafter


Well, that’s the last of 'em—I’ve left my little bits of cake and had a word with each of the Quiet Ones. Let’s us set down over on this cement bench – ain’t it nice? Bernice’s boy put it there back on Decoration Day for us old folks to rest our bones.. We can have us a little cake too.

Story? Oh, honey, I reckon I’ve told you most all the stories they is about these folks here. Like as not, we’ll have to wait for the next burying – long as it ain’t me.

No, I’m funning you. I feel right peart for as many years as I’m carrying. But my mind’s been running that way – thinking about that dark feller don’t no one outsmart in the end.

Hit was them Witness people set me going, coming to my door with their little newspapers and such and asking me had I thought about the Hereafter.

What is it you’re here after? I wondered to myself, but I didn’t say it out loud and I let them come in and talk at me for quite a spell.

Now I’m of two minds about those Witness folks. By what they believe, they’re doing a fine thing, giving up their time to try and save folks from going to hell. But they’s an ornery part of me thinks they ain’t got no business bothering folks like they do. When Luther was alive and they come to the door with their little newspapers, he’d tell them he couldn’t read – which weren’t a bit of it true; that man taught me to read. And he read his Bible every day.


No, I didn’t never go to school . . . my mama was . . . well,  she weren't like other folk. . . it ain’t a time I care to remember. But it’s kindly all tied up with how those folks got me to thinking about the Hereafter.

Mostly I don’t worry about it none. But sometimes when I wake afore sunup, laying there in the dark, I think about some solemn things. Sometimes I name over in my mind all the folks I’ve knowed who’ve gone on to- well, to wherever it is we go. That’s a bad thing about getting up to my age–you got more friends below ground than above.

 And then I wonder to myself just how much longer I got to watch the seasons turn, to feel my heart lift at the sight of yellow bells in the spring, to taste the ripe maters and blackberries in the summer, to see the colors lighting up the hills come fall—look at that sourwood, jest a-blazing over yon—and to listen to the hush of a gentle snowfall, like me and Luther listened when we was first wed. I ain’t tired of none of that yet.

Get you some more of that cake. Do you smell the wood smoke in the air? Ain’t that a good smell? Friendly-like, speaking of home. . .

Naw, I ain’t what you would say worried about the Hereafter. I’d like it fine to be with Luther and Cletus and my angel children. But the more I study on it, the more I wonder about things. . .

Now you may not know it but, though I go to church of a Sunday, it’s mostly for the company. I have got to where when the preacher starts hollering about all those sinners who are going to the Bad Place to burn forever, why I just can’t make that square with my notion of a god who loves his children. But if that’s the way of it, why I don’t want nothing to do with that god.

I say this to you for I know you’ll not repeat it. The preacher would call it blaspheming and it would trouble Dor’thy, was she to hear me talking so. And it may be that I say these things because . . . well . . . because there was things I done when I was a girl . . . things I ain’t proud of . . .

Oh, I have asked forgiveness and said sorry for these things . . .and I have been punished too… I reckon that losing all them babies, and then Luther and then Cletus. . .being left to live out a long life alone…well, if that ain’t punishment. . .



The old woman fell silent, gazing across the graveyard into the dark creeping over the woods at its edge. A single tear glistened on her wrinkled cheek and she angrily wiped it away.

Ay law, how I do go on. I expect it’s along of this day—this one day when our world is so close to that other one, when the Quiet Ones ain’t so quiet but chatter in my ears till I have to think of the Hereafter whether I want to or not.

I thank you for listening, honey. And  I thank you for not asking questions but setting with me as the dark draws in.

Now give me your arm. We best get on down to your car. 


9 comments:

Bethany Robinson said...

I so love Miss Birdie. She talks just like the old folks talked back when I was growing up. There's lots of wisdom to be gained sometimes just by sitting and listening to them.

Happy Fall, Vicki!

Linda McCracken said...

Thank you for bringing us Miss Birdie's words for the day. They are comforting.

Barbara Rogers said...

Howdy Miss Birdie! So nice to hear from you again. Of course I love your voice whenever you feel like chatting. Have a very enjoyable Halloween, you and yours!

NCmountainwoman said...

What a wonderful treat you have given us this moening. I do so love Miss Birdie! Thank you.

GPearson said...

Vicki, I could listen to Miss Birdie all day. Reminds me of sitting around the woodstove listening to my Grammaw and Aunt tell stories. Thank you.

Pennelainer said...


Miss Birdie, I would love to sit a spell with you. I appreciate Vicki's recounting this because it is as close as I can get to that!

Nan Emanuel said...

Well, it was so nice to wake up this morning with a visit from Ms. Birdie. She's a deep thinker, that one! Now she's got me 'athinkin 'bout my own demise... Not for very long though, I'm too busy to wander off into oblivion! Thank goodness for that!

Elizabeth Varadan, Author said...

Loved this. I was totally drawn in, enthralled. Although I have to admit, I was curious as to the "bad things" Miss Birdie did when she was young. I suspect they weren't all that bad.

Patricia Wallin (Trish) said...

Ms Birdie is wise.
I'd like to schedule a visit with her!
♡♡