Rexard Earl Titus, you'd best be home for
supper! his overwhelmed mother shouted as he set off down the front path in his
patched blue jeans and frayed tee shirt, his bandana-wrapped belongings - pocket knife, harmonica, two comic books and a jar of peanut butter - tied to
a green stick and resting on one thin shoulder. He looked all the world like a
Norman Rockwell image of a hobo. It was early morning on a late summer day and when Lurline saw the rain clouds she thought of chasing after her youngest boy with his yellow slicker but by the time she'd snatched it off the hook in the hall, he was already almost out of sight. She gave a resigned sigh and let him go.
By noon, the rain clouds had considerably darkened and the light rain had turned fierce. Lurline pulled on her rain gear and boots and set off to look for T-Rex, knowing he would head for the ballfield and the fragile shelter of the old three-sided dugout, hoping he was holed up and not drenched to the skin.
Boy's gon' be the death of me if'n we both don't catch the pneumonia, she muttered to herself and that was when the lightning cracked and lit up the sky clear to the edge of the outfield. At first she thought the small figure standing there at second base and suddenly flung to the ground was a shadow, just her eyes playing a trick, she told herself. But then she was running, every bone in her body knowing that her child had been struck by lightning and was most surely dead. T-Rex lay on his back in the muddy grass, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish, scorched little body still heaving. Lurline snatched him up and ran for both their lives.
He weren't dead, Alice, she told my grandmother, voice still trembling, God musta seen him after he sent that lightnin' and took pity on him. So help me, 'til he woke up I weren't real sure what to pray for, his soul or mine. I let him go into that storm.
It weren't your fault, Lurline, Nana reminded her gently, Mebbe you did let him go but you saved his life too. I reckon the good Lord'll see that.
Lurline began to cry and Nana - not one much accustomed to offering comfort and usually impatient with tears - looked on helplessly.
Fetch me the brandy and one of my good handkerchiefs, child, she told me briskly, and shut your mouth or you'll catch flies!
The end of summer turned into the beginning of fall and T-Rex, now generally seen as a supremely blessed and lucky child, slowly but surely made his way back. By October, Ruthie wrote, he was almost his old self though he did have frequent headaches, a slight limp, and an uncanny knack for predicting storms. Lurline had become almost violently overprotective.
Guilt will do that, Nana allowed, but I reckon a damaged child is better'n a dead one any day. Damage heals.
And by Christmas, it seemed that she was right. Lurline's yearly Christmas card included family pictures, all her smiling children with T-Rex featured prominently. It made my grandmother smile as well and she scotch taped it to the mantle and propped up the best picture in the cotton snow village on the hearth.
Fast forward six years to a late summer afternoon on the same ballfield for the last game of the season. T-Rex, no longer a spikey haired, fresh-faced nine year old but a lanky teenager who, as his mother liked to say, had grown into his own self, ate like a horse and outgrew his clothes faster than she could mend them. He was also the most feared pitcher in years - not graceful, not fluid, but able to regularly instill terror in the hearts of the hitters he faced - he was blazing fast and when it came to the strike zone, accurate to the point of deadly.
It happened in the seventh - he was well on his way to a no-hitter - and just as he went into his windup, the clouds began to gather and the breeze died. Without warning, a clap of thunder exploded overhead and sent spectators scattering. In its wake, there was an unexpected stillness to the air, the field was nearly buried in shadows and streaks of sickly yellow-ish light appeared over the now-choppy ocean. I remember thinking that we all knew the lightning was coming but that T-Rex knew it first - seconds before the jagged bolt came shooting out of the sky with a wicked sizzle, striking him square between the shoulder blades, and lifting him clean off his feet before roughly dropping him to the ground - we'd all seen him look up at the sky in bewilderment. Then he was face down in the dirt, a spiral of lazy smoke coming from his blackened uniform. For a second, no one moved then Lurline screamed and everyone was in motion. Doc McDonald reached him first, turning his slender body over with practiced ease, ripping away the remnants of the seared shirt and frantically starting CPR. Even with Lurline screaming and being held back, it seemed to take forever but the stale air changed, the skies cleared, and T-Rex - dazed, groggy and barely conscious - opened his eyes and tried to speak.
Damn, son, if you ain't made of steel, Doc told him when he muttered something unintelligible, Just save it for now and rest easy 'til we get you checked out.
T-Rex groaned, a pitiful sound, but Doc just grinned and gently brushed his singed hair out of his eyes.
All in good time, son, he said calmly, All in good time.
To survive one lightning strike was miracle enough, the village declared. To survive a second could be no less than the hand of God. T-Rex, having been raised in a good, God fearing home and humble as a result of it, thought it was just bad luck and worse timing but to be on the safe side, he decided he'd had just about enough baseball and sadly hung up his cleats, turned in his glove, and made a point of keeping clear of the ballfield.
It's not always easy to quit while you're ahead and it was years and years later when he confessed he'd never quite been able to get over the idea that a third lightning strike was - somehow, somewhere - just waiting.
By noon, the rain clouds had considerably darkened and the light rain had turned fierce. Lurline pulled on her rain gear and boots and set off to look for T-Rex, knowing he would head for the ballfield and the fragile shelter of the old three-sided dugout, hoping he was holed up and not drenched to the skin.
Boy's gon' be the death of me if'n we both don't catch the pneumonia, she muttered to herself and that was when the lightning cracked and lit up the sky clear to the edge of the outfield. At first she thought the small figure standing there at second base and suddenly flung to the ground was a shadow, just her eyes playing a trick, she told herself. But then she was running, every bone in her body knowing that her child had been struck by lightning and was most surely dead. T-Rex lay on his back in the muddy grass, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish, scorched little body still heaving. Lurline snatched him up and ran for both their lives.
He weren't dead, Alice, she told my grandmother, voice still trembling, God musta seen him after he sent that lightnin' and took pity on him. So help me, 'til he woke up I weren't real sure what to pray for, his soul or mine. I let him go into that storm.
It weren't your fault, Lurline, Nana reminded her gently, Mebbe you did let him go but you saved his life too. I reckon the good Lord'll see that.
Lurline began to cry and Nana - not one much accustomed to offering comfort and usually impatient with tears - looked on helplessly.
Fetch me the brandy and one of my good handkerchiefs, child, she told me briskly, and shut your mouth or you'll catch flies!
The end of summer turned into the beginning of fall and T-Rex, now generally seen as a supremely blessed and lucky child, slowly but surely made his way back. By October, Ruthie wrote, he was almost his old self though he did have frequent headaches, a slight limp, and an uncanny knack for predicting storms. Lurline had become almost violently overprotective.
Guilt will do that, Nana allowed, but I reckon a damaged child is better'n a dead one any day. Damage heals.
And by Christmas, it seemed that she was right. Lurline's yearly Christmas card included family pictures, all her smiling children with T-Rex featured prominently. It made my grandmother smile as well and she scotch taped it to the mantle and propped up the best picture in the cotton snow village on the hearth.
Fast forward six years to a late summer afternoon on the same ballfield for the last game of the season. T-Rex, no longer a spikey haired, fresh-faced nine year old but a lanky teenager who, as his mother liked to say, had grown into his own self, ate like a horse and outgrew his clothes faster than she could mend them. He was also the most feared pitcher in years - not graceful, not fluid, but able to regularly instill terror in the hearts of the hitters he faced - he was blazing fast and when it came to the strike zone, accurate to the point of deadly.
It happened in the seventh - he was well on his way to a no-hitter - and just as he went into his windup, the clouds began to gather and the breeze died. Without warning, a clap of thunder exploded overhead and sent spectators scattering. In its wake, there was an unexpected stillness to the air, the field was nearly buried in shadows and streaks of sickly yellow-ish light appeared over the now-choppy ocean. I remember thinking that we all knew the lightning was coming but that T-Rex knew it first - seconds before the jagged bolt came shooting out of the sky with a wicked sizzle, striking him square between the shoulder blades, and lifting him clean off his feet before roughly dropping him to the ground - we'd all seen him look up at the sky in bewilderment. Then he was face down in the dirt, a spiral of lazy smoke coming from his blackened uniform. For a second, no one moved then Lurline screamed and everyone was in motion. Doc McDonald reached him first, turning his slender body over with practiced ease, ripping away the remnants of the seared shirt and frantically starting CPR. Even with Lurline screaming and being held back, it seemed to take forever but the stale air changed, the skies cleared, and T-Rex - dazed, groggy and barely conscious - opened his eyes and tried to speak.
Damn, son, if you ain't made of steel, Doc told him when he muttered something unintelligible, Just save it for now and rest easy 'til we get you checked out.
T-Rex groaned, a pitiful sound, but Doc just grinned and gently brushed his singed hair out of his eyes.
All in good time, son, he said calmly, All in good time.
To survive one lightning strike was miracle enough, the village declared. To survive a second could be no less than the hand of God. T-Rex, having been raised in a good, God fearing home and humble as a result of it, thought it was just bad luck and worse timing but to be on the safe side, he decided he'd had just about enough baseball and sadly hung up his cleats, turned in his glove, and made a point of keeping clear of the ballfield.
It's not always easy to quit while you're ahead and it was years and years later when he confessed he'd never quite been able to get over the idea that a third lightning strike was - somehow, somewhere - just waiting.
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