Forever Country

Forever Country

By

Brenda Kennedy

***

Dedicated to my sisters with love,

Martha, Rosa, and Carla

***

Copyright 2015 by Brenda Kennedy

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This story is part of a trilogy. Books 1 and
2 have cliffhangers.

***

CHAPTER ONE

Abel Kennedy

It’s been six months since I lost the
Heavyweight Boxing Championship fight to Bobby Grether. Although
I’m disappointed, I know that he won fair and square. Even I can
admit that.

After the fight, I stayed hidden in my suite
at the Bellagio Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. I was
waiting for the swelling and bruising to go down on my face before
being seen in public. I looked bad. In fact, I looked as bad as I
felt. I was never one for public humiliation. I was the fighting
champion, and then suddenly I wasn’t. It hurt. It hurt almost as
bad as the injuries.

I talked to Momma and Pops every day. Pops
said he saw the fight on television, and he knew the condition I
was in. He said Momma busied herself in the kitchen, makin’ fried
chicken and peach cobbler so she had an excuse not to watch the
fight. I invited them to all of my fights, but they didn’t attend
any of them. Pops is busy on the farm and Momma, well, she doesn’t
want to see anyone hittin’ her baby. “Baby” is her word, not mine.
I’m 31 years old, so I’m hardly a baby. But I’ll always be her
baby, no matter how old I am.

My managers, Tony and Mack, stayed with me
during my recuperation time after the fight. They were disappointed
when I lost the championship belt, but I think they were more
disappointed when I told them I was retiring. Well, maybe I’ll
semi-retire; I haven’t decided yet. I do know this body needs a
long rest.

I decided to return to my country roots in
Rose Farm, Ohio for the holidays. My parents are getting old and
when my brother called and asked if I could come home and help on
the farm, I couldn’t say no.

I fly into Columbus, Ohio, rent a pickup
truck, and drive myself to Rose Farm. Pops calls the farm “The
Kennedy Mule Hill Farm,” but I’m not sure why. As I travel the old
country roads, I see not much has changed. I left the rural area
right out of high school and returned home only a few times over
the years.

I didn’t want to be a
farmer, and I didn’t want this life for me.
I’ve stepped in manure way too many times.
I like music, and I know that the Mississippi Sheiks’ Walter
Vinson, who used to work as a field hand, had a very good reason
for quitting and taking off with his guitar to play the country
blues I love so much: “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life
behind a mule that’s farting.” Of course, that was back in the days
when mules pulled plows.

Pops works hard, and he’s a proud man, but I
wanted more for me, and for them. I thought if I made a lot of
money, I would move my family away from the farm and into the city.
I would be able to provide for them, and their life would be
better, happier, and easier.

I was wrong. They never left the farm, and
they never cashed most of the checks I sent home for them. I sent
them more than enough to pay off the farm, the farming equipment,
and a sufficient amount to retire on and hire a farmhand. Those
checks are stored away in a box in a closet. I will never
understand why they chose to struggle the way they do. Pops did
call me once and asked if he could cash one of the checks. He said
Momma was getting’ mighty tired of holdin’ an umbrella over her
head while hearin’ the gospel. I think that translates into “the
church roof leaks.”

Most people call their farms ranches, but not
in this neck of the woods. They’re just farms. There’s nothing
fancy about a farmhouse, country land, or country living.

I drive through
Crooksville, and nothing has changed. The old Crooksville Bank, now
called “The Community Bank,” is still there and Peaches Place, a
family restaurant, is just up the street. I watch the people as
they mosey down the road stopping to talk to their neighbors.
Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, Carhartt workwear, flannel shirts,
and camouflage anything is still the dress code for these parts. I
look around and I don’t see anyone I recognize.
I wonder if I would even know anyone if I saw them. Probably
not.

I consider stopping at Peaches Place for some
homemade apple pie but decide against it. I wonder if my
sister-in-law, Mia, is working today. I’m not the same person I was
when I left here, and I already feel out of place. I look down at
my black slacks and white button-up shirt, and I definitely don’t
fit in. I have cowboy boots, a guitar in the back of the pickup,
and a cowboy hat. Maybe I fit in more than I want to admit. I also
have a brand-news harmonica I’d like to learn to play. Fortunately,
a harmonica doesn’t take up much space. 

I stop at the only country bar between
Crooksville and Rose Farm. The County Line Bar is a popular bar
that was open when I lived here. It used to be called The Jolly
Bar. It looks like the only place in town to grab a cold one. I put
on my cowboy hat and make my way into the bar.

It’s early on a Wednesday
night and there’s already a small crowd gathering inside.
Is it Ladies Night?
I get
I.D.’d and pay the $5.00 cover charge at the door. I’m a little
surprised to have to pay a fee in this area.

“
When did you start
charging a cover charge?” I ask the bouncer at the door.

“
Since the Max Bleu band
started playin’ here.” He nods to the stage in front of the bar and
I can see the band setting up.
Max Bleu
Band. I kind of remember in high school a few guys getting a band
together. Max was one guy’s first name, and Bleu was another guy’s
last name. For the life of me, I can’t remember their whole
names.

I make my way to the bar. After I order a Bud
Light, I take the only seat left at the bar. It’s beside a girl
with long brown hair. I don’t complain.

I look around the bar and drink my beer. When
the band begins to play, I turn and face the stage. They introduce
the band members and then themselves. I quickly recognize them as
the guys from high school.

The brunette sitting beside
me orders a Pepsi and I’m a little surprised.
Who comes to a bar and drinks pop?
Someone bumps into her and she almost falls off of the
barstool. I quickly reach for her to prevent her from falling onto
the floor. The drunken guy looks at her and stumbles
away.

“
Asshat,” she yells after
him, and scoots back onto the stool. She turns around and looks at
me and says, “Thank you. You can’t even have a drink without some
drunk bumpin’ into you.”

I remove my hands from around her waist.
“You’re welcome. You’re only drinking Pepsi?” I ask.

“
My boyfriend’s the
drummer. It’s still too early to drink. If I started drinkin’ now,
I’d be like that asshat,” she says, nodding to the drunk guy
staggering across the room.

I smile to keep from
laughing. “I don’t think I ever heard a girl say ‘asshat.’”


before.

When I say that, her smile matches my smile.
“Sorry, that’s not too ladylike, is it?”

“
It’s fine. It’s just not a
word I hear everyday.”

“
And I’m not like any other
girl.” She laughs. “Hi, I’m Megan Rose.” She reaches her hand out
for mine.

I shake her hand and say, “I’m Abel
Kennedy.”

“
I know that name.” I watch
as her brows furrow together. “Abel Kennedy… how do I know that
name?”

I watch her take a drink of her Pepsi from
the can. I don’t answer her, I just smile. The room starts filling
up and it’s now standing room only. Onlookers now block the view we
had of the band. I watch as she leans forward to try to get a
better view of her boyfriend.

The drunken guy reappears and stands beside
her to order another drink. “Hey, baby,” he slurs.

She leans back away from him and says, “I’m
not your baby.”

I watch him, and he watches her as he orders
a double shot of Jack Daniels from the bartender. “Not yet, you’re
not, but I was thinking we could hook up later.” His licks his lips
and it’s disgusting. I watch as she stiffens. He takes his double
shot and downs the entire drink. I watch as he wipes his mouth off
with the back of his hand and says, “You ready to suck me off?”

I stand and put my hand on Megan Rose’s
shoulder. I look down at him and say, “Don’t talk to my sister like
that.”

She stiffens more but doesn’t say anything. I
don’t know if it’s because I’m touching her, or because I just
called her my sister. Probably both. His smile now fades and he
stutters. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“
Well, now you do.” I look
down at Megan Rose and say, “Sis, why don’t you go and get us a
table closer to the band?”

She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t
look at him or me. She stands and quickly walks away.

“
You stay away from her,
got it?”

“
It’s just a
misunderstandin’,” he slurs. He raises both hands and stumbles
away. I watch as he makes his way through the crowd to the
exit.

I finish my beer and pay my
check
and
Megan
Rose’s Pepsi bill. As I make my way out the door, I see Megan Rose
sitting at a table closer to the band. She’s sitting with other
girls who I assume are the band members’ girlfriends or wives. She
sees me and I tilt my cowboy hat and leave.

As I make my way to my
truck,
I see the drunken guy getting into a
car with a girl. Just as I open my door, someone yells,
“Abel.”

I turn around and see Megan Rose running
towards me. The air is cold and she wraps her arms across her
mid-section for warmth. “I wanted to thank you for what you did for
me in there,” she says out of breath. I look behind her and I see a
guy standing at the doorway watching us. I recognize him as the
drummer in the band.

I watch her and say, “You’re welcome, but I
really didn’t do anything.”

She laughs. “You did do something, and I
appreciate it. Most people just keep to themselves; they don’t want
to get involved. I can tell that you aren’t from around here.”

“
I’m just visiting.” She
doesn’t need to know that I am from around here. I’ll be leaving
soon and chances are I’ll never see her again.

“
I told Nick
what happened and we both appreciate it. Thank
you.”

I look behind her, and I assume Nick is her
boyfriend. He nods and I return the gesture. “You’re welcome, Megan
Rose. You should get inside because it’s cold out here.”

“
Okay, be careful, and I
owe you a drink the next time I see you,” she yells and walks
towards the bar.

I watch as she makes her way towards Nick.
They both wave and I watch as he holds the door open for her and
walks in last. I get in the truck and head home.

I’m stalling and I don’t know why. It’s home;
I’m home. I arrive in Rose Farm, which is only a few miles from
Crooksville, and see that the old school is still standing. It’s
been condemned: Windows are busted out, and pieces of graffiti are
written all over the brick building. I have to wonder why the
eyesore of a building is still standing. Why wouldn’t they tear it
down? Memories flood my head with the stories of the old
schoolhouse that I heard when I was a child, of the old
schoolhouse. I was too young to attend there before they closed it.
I look further into the field behind the school, and thankfully,
the outhouses — there used to be one for the boys, and one for the
girls — are no longer there. This was a three-room schoolhouse, and
each teacher taught two grades: 1-2, 3-4, and 5-6.

We still need to fight the War on Poverty,
but we may never win it because in Mark 14:7 Jesus said that “ye
have the poor with you always.” Even if we never completely win the
war, we need to fight it. Let all of us remember Proverbs 28:27:
“Whoever gives to the poor will not want, but he who hides his eyes
will get many a curse.”

When President Lyndon Johnson declared his
War on Poverty, the Rose Farm School was shut down, and students
were bused to York Elementary School in Deavertown, which was just
a few miles away. Federal money flowed into York Elementary, which
started a library. Boxes of paperback books arrived frequently at
the school, and the students did the work of setting up the
library. The school also got one of the first videotape machines,
which was used to show students such things as anti-smoking
documentaries.