by Jody French
I’m busy organizing the meals to be delivered when I spot the same two gossiping hens I had encountered in the doughnut shop weeks earlier. They’re in rare form once again, shaking their heads and gossiping as though they’re in the Country Cuts Salon downtown. They stand pointing at Mrs. Walton and Mr. Franklin, the kind elderly couple who found companionship in each other after the deaths of their spouses.
I cross over to Mr. Franklin and his sweetheart and greet them. "Happy Thanksgiving!” I smile, taking Mrs. Walton's frail hand.
"Oh, Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!" Mr. Franklin replies. "It's so good to see young people like you helpin’ out in the community. You’re a good egg, Forrest,” Mr. Franklin says in a shaky voice.
“I'm glad to do it. I know I've been really blessed, too," I tell him humbly.
"Oh, honey, don’t you know it," Mrs. Walton says, patting my hand gently.
I bid them "good day," and make my way back across the room. I’m feeling a little devilish right here in church, and just can’t resist the chance to stir up the two blue-haired gossiping hens.
"Ladies! You look beautiful this morning…Happy Thanksgiving," I sing out boldly, mustering my most innocent smile.
The two women eye me up and down with shocked expressions and pull their shoulders back as though I might grab their pocketbooks and run.
"Uh…you, too," one of the plump women replies, cautiously.
"You ladies have a W-O-N-D-E-R-F-U-L holiday weekend," I call out, as though they’re hard of hearing.
"Well, thank you, honey!" her surprised gossip-passing partner gushes. The two skeptics nod in approval. I turn to wink at Mr. Franklin and Mrs. Walton. They send a warm, knowing smile back to me.
"Kill em' with kindness,” I whisper under my breath…as a matter of fact, I think that’ll be the name of my next song.
My family and I load over fifty Thanksgiving meals into our vehicles and hit the streets of our little town. I’m always saddened by the condition of some of the homes where we deliver the meals. Even as tiny as our community is, there are still streets that I never drive down—streets that are lined with dilapidated houses, containing people in need.
Dad, Mama, Megan, and I pull up to a small, brick duplex. A scruffy, wire haired, mixed breed pup yaps loudly on the other side of the crooked fence as my family and I file down the cracked sidewalk. My heart sinks. I spot a miniature, rusting pink bicycle with a flat tire and broken handlebars propped up against the crumbling brick wall.
"Somebody's going to get a new bike from Santa," Mama whispers. I know she and Dad will purchase a new bike and leave it on their porch Christmas day. I feel much better about the situation.
The doorbell is out of order, so I step up and knock three times at the door of the apartment located on the left of the complex.
"Who is it?" a gruff voice questions.
"Um…um…it's your Thanksgiving meals, sir," I stutter. I hear the metal scraping sound of the door chain sliding. The door creaks open slowly, reminding me of the scary movies from Red Box that Megan and I love to watch together. We aren’t sure what is going to greet us from the other side.
"Hey, there!" I say officially. “We have four meals for your family," I continue.
As I hand them over, the recipient of the Thanksgiving dinners points at me.
"Duuuude! You're the lead singer of Cellar Door Is Gone!” he says in amazement.
"Yes…yeah, I am," I affirm, nodding my head.
"Hey, Junior…get out here, man. The lead singer of Cellar Door Is Gone is here, man!" the long-haired rocker yells over his shoulder. He flicks his lit cigarette onto the ground and stomps it out with Jesus sandals that are sandwiched over white crew socks.
I shake his hand and then Junior appears from the back of the tiny, dark apartment.
"I'm Justin Thomas, but everyone calls me J.T., and this here's Junior. We're brothers. Man, it is soooo cool to meet ya!” he says, shouting once again over his shoulder, this time for his wife to come join them.
"I can't believe it! We follow ya’ in the paper and have yer CD," Junior continues. “You dudes’r great!”
"Well, thanks, man! It’s great to meet you all," I reply, nodding my head. The brothers accept the meals with a heartfelt thank you, and hand them back to Junior's wife, Tiffany.
"Dude, how was it openin’ fer KISS…when are y'all goin' on tour again?" J.T. inquires, rolling both questions together quickly.
"Oh, man, KISS was amazing!" I begin. I’m stoked for the conversation and the avid rockers hang on my every word. "We’ve got plans to go on a radio tour for a couple of weeks before Christmas, and our management’s workin' on a tour after the first of the year. We’re sooo ready to go," I explain with excitement that is contracted by the two enthusiastic fans.
"Man, that’s just awesome, dude! Hey….can we get a pic with ya?" Junior asks.
"Sure, man…no problem. Do ya have a camera?" I inquire, stepping back onto the uneven sidewalk.
"Hey Tiff, hand me baby girl's little camera!" Junior calls out. He hands my mom a hot pink Barbie disposable camera.
"Okay," Junior instructs. "Just push this do-dad to take the picture. Then this here disc on the back, with the jaggedy edge, will take ya to the next one," he continues. Junior backs up and puts his arm around my shoulder. Mama knows how to use every camera known to man and gets tickled at his tutorial.
"All right. On three…say 'ROCK ON!'" Mama chimes as she holds up the camera.
J.T. suddenly spies Megan standing behind Dad. "Hey, young lady, aren't ya Forrest's sister?" He asks pointing in her direction.
"Yep, I sure am," Megan answers proudly.
"Well, by dang, then yer famous, too. Come get in the pic, girl!" J.T. calls out, motioning her over.
Megan bounds over and takes her place in the lineup. I’m grateful for his giving special treatment to Megan, and for the smiles that our visit brings to their faces. I take it all in—the radiant fall morning, the yipping Heinz 57 dog barking at the fence, and the plastic quacking sound of Mama advancing the film on the Barbie camera. It’s all heartwarming.
I think about how the pictures are going to turn out—me smiling, Megan giggling, J.T.'s mullet blowing in the breeze, and Junior's eyes closed, while grinning from ear to ear.
As Mama snaps the last picture, we hear a honk from the street. Kyle sees us and waves enthusiastically, as he pulls his pickup truck parallel to the curb.
"Hey, man!” I greet him. I begin to make my way back down the sidewalk, but my journey is interrupted by Megan, who almost knocks me over as she comes darting by me in a flash.
I stop dead in my tracks, trying to figure out where the fire is. I haven’t seen Megan move this fast since Dad chased her around with a mousetrap, complete with deceased mouse.
My jaw goes slack as I witness my sister run to the driver side window of the truck and kiss my best friend. Yes—Megan kissed Kyle!
“Are you KIDDING meee!" I gasp. "REALLY?”
Kyle grins at me and shrugs his shoulders in an unsure manner. I know he’s not sure how I’m going to react to the awkward situation.
"Yeah, man. Are you okay with this?" Kyle asks cautiously.
I shake my head and take a few slow steps toward Kyle’s pickup. Reaching through his truck window, I give my buddy a hard, but harmless knuckle punch on the shoulder. I honestly have to laugh. I never, ever would have thought of this in a million years, but they actually make a kinda cute couple.
"Good luck with her, man—she's quite a handful!" I tease, still a state of shock.
Kyle is relieved by my response. We’re already bros. Now, maybe we'll be future “bros-in-law.”
It’s all good.
Megan blows a non-sarcastic kiss to me as they pull away. "See you all at Aunt Carmen's! Love ya, bub!” Wow….my sis is growin’ up!
I jog back to my new buds, Junior and J.T. "Rock on, man. Happy Thanksgiving and God Bless!" I give the brothers each a fist bump.
> "Yeah! Rock on, man. Go get em' on the tour and be safe, lil' dude!" Junior exclaims.
The two brothers stand with giddy, gap-toothed smiles. Junior gives me the thumbs up; J.T. gives me the rock sign.
I jump into my Chevy pickup, pull out my BlackBerry, and hit speed dial. "Hey, are ya ready?” I ask calmly, although filled with expectation. "Okay. I'm on my way to pick ya up. Aunt Carmen will be soooo glad to finally meet you. Love ya, Sophie!" I say, my voice a little more high-pitched than usual.
I feel content and complete. I put my truck in gear and pull out onto the antique brick streets that were laid by prisoners back in the old days. I roll down my windows and let the pure, crisp November air rifle through the cab.
I glance into the rearview mirror and almost don’t recognize myself. My reflection reveals the shorter haircut that I had gotten the week before. Mama cried and saved my thick curly ponytail in a Ziploc bag. I now have rad “devil locks,” with cool sharp side burns and shorter curls down the back of my neck. The girls at school and on Facebook are crazy for my makeover. Sophie loves it, too. It’s different, but good—it was time for a change.
I slip on my Ray Ban aviators, and turn onto a bumpy, back country road. I’m off to pick up Sophie, who lives just two miles past Aunt Carmen’s homestead. The brilliant autumn sun comes alive. Its rays dance like daytime fireflies, as it reflects over the lazy ripples in Aunt Carmen’s pond. I honk at Mojo as I rumble past Aunt C’s pasture. His ears prick up. He begins to race my truck down the barbed wire fence line. The majestic sorrel holds his head high. He flexes his muscles and morphs from a gallop into a dead, thirty-five mile an hour run. It’s the perfect picture to describe how I know we both feel this very moment—free!!
Betty is buckled safely in the back seat keeping me company. I pull on my Joe’s Tire ball cap, turn on KMOD and crank my stereo volume to max—there’s no one here to tell me to turn it down. My calloused fingers begin to keep time on the well-worn, knuckle-indented leather steering wheel. I recognize the song playing within the first two beats. Even though it’s a brand new single, I know each and every word by heart already. The song is “Sweet Goodbye,” track number two from the debut album by a young, red dirt rock band called Cellar Door Is Gone, which hails from the Midwest—Cowtown, Oklahoma, to be exact.
~ROCK ON~
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel was inspired by the true life experiences of Forrest French, former lead singer/guitarist for teen rock band, Crooked X. The setting is real, but some characters are strictly products of the author’s imagination. This novel in no way represents any of his former band members, their families, former management or professional representatives.
ACKNOWLEGMENTS
I would like to thank Monty, my hard working husband of 27 years, for allowing me the time to finally put my thoughts to paper, my daughters Jessica and Skylar for supporting my creative process and always looking out for their little brother, my mother who passed her passion for writing down to me, and my father for being one of Forrest’s biggest fans from the day of his birth. Thank you to Eddie and Carolyn French for their positive feedback and constant love. Much appreciation to my sisters, Shannon and Faith, for believing in me and giving me constant comic relief, and to my wonderful community of Coweta, Oklahoma, Tulsa radio station KMOD, and attorneys at law, Mike Redman and Kenneth Freundlich, for their invaluable friendship and assistance with Forrest’s musical ventures. I am forever grateful for the hospitality of MTV, The Dallas Cowboy football franchise, Brad Harris and The Cain’s Ballroom, Red Bull, and my ancestor’s home of Sweden, along with its beautiful people. Thank you to Jennet Grover, my lovely editor and mentor, who encouraged me with each step along the way, and helped me to bring my story to life. Thank you to Donna Font and Neverland Publishing for their philosophy of taking chances on first time authors, and making the process of publishing a book a most enjoyable, heartwarming experience. Last but not least, my biggest acknowledgment goes to my talented son Forrest, for inspiring me in this work and in my world each and every day by holding his family values close to his heart and his faith in God above all else.
Hailing from the small farming and ranching community of Coweta, Oklahoma, author and substitute teacher Jody French’s love for working with and relating to teens, as well as her passion for her son’s music, inspired her to write her first novel for young adults, Red Dirt Rocker.
In addition to writing and traveling, Jody loves to spend time with her husband, three children and three grandchildren. Rumor has it that some of her writing has been accomplished with a grandbaby on her lap.
Jody is a member of the Tulsa writer's group, Tulsa Inkslingers, as well as the online group, Scribophile.
