The Flagpole

It was hard to hear over the wind and the incoming tide, but it sounded like Uncle Shad and it sounded like he had yelled, Damn it to hell, woman, you be tryin’ to get me kilt?

When I looked out the screen door, I saw my grandmother, apron and hair flying in the breeze as she clutched at a ladder leaning precariously against the flagpole.   The upper half of my Uncle Shad was clinging to the pole while the lower half flailed wildly in search of a rung.  My grandmother, my sedate and uncommonly good-sensed grandmother, was splattered from head to toe in white paint and laughing like a hyena.

Alice!  Uncle Shad hollered, Quit that caterwaulin’ and hold the damn thing steady!

Nana tried, I’ll give her that, but her hands were slippery with paint and the each time she looked up and saw Shad with his overalls half off and his old baseball cap dangling over one ear, she just laughed harder.  One paint stained work boot came flying off and hit the ground with an ominous thud.

GODDAMIT, ALICE!  he roared, THIS AIN’T FUNNY!  SHUT YER CACKLIN’ AND GIT AHOLT OF THE  DAMN LADDER!

A small crowd of spectators had gathered at the foot of the front path where it met the old dirt road but no one seemed inclined to want to offer any assistance.

 

Sit down on her, Shad!  one of the men yelled and the crowd cheered.

When the second work boot came tumbling down and landed like a poor orphan in the blackberry thicket, Nana gave up entirely and half collapsed, arms wrapped around the base of the ladder but still shaking with laughter.  John Sullivan eased out of the crowd and trudged up the path – although I can’t say he was exactly hurrying – and steadied the ladder long enough for Shad to regain his footing and his grip and climb shakily down.  The old man, by then a paint-streaked, nervous wreck, fussed and muttered and shook his fists but Long John just brushed him off and set him on his feet.  My grandmother, who had finally composed herself, had the good grace to apologize but Shad was having none of it.  He gave her a glare, retrieved his boots with as much dignity as he could muster, and stalked up the driveway.

Miz Watson, John Sullivan observed mildly, I ‘spect you’ve had better ideas.

Mind your business, John, she said tartly, Ain’t nothin’ hurt ‘cept his pride and a blueberry pie’ll set him to rights quick enough.

It took two pies and a plate of muffins but in the end, there was no damage done.

Friendship is built on shared experiences and reinforced by adversities.  Sometimes something as simple as a flagpole in need of a whitewash can show you the way.