It's Friday! For 20 minutes Everything Was All Right in the World.

                                                                   Ahoy Mates

Welcome to my journey, buckle up and hold on. The winds blow and the seas are getting rough, but not all is lost. I think of Walt Witman's Poem, O Captain...reflecting on the death of Abraham Lincoln. I can assure you, however, this story does not end tragically. Instead, Markie was able to sail his vessel into the safe and calm harbor of redemption despite the chaos that so violently blew against his fragile ship! A steady keel and a life preserver of hope was tossed to Captain Markie D on Fridays that kept him afloat. 

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

There is a preacher that has a famous message titled, "It's Friday, but Sunday's Coming" and through the car pushing...and hamper stuffing...and milk sampling...and larvae picking...and temple squeezing...and sour dough fighting...and rattlesnake alerting...and stomach vomiting...and whacks across the knuckles by Sister Godzilla...and trips to the Sister Superior's office...and mom locked in her bedroom...and Wolf Pack conspiring - not all is lost for our brave little soul - for today was FRIDAY!

It was 1966 and a lot was going on in the world... besides The Beatles, long hair, hippies, hot rods and Viet Nam War protest, there were much bigger stakes taking place in our country at this time. It was the ongoing tension about Race and equality and civil rights. After James Meredith was shot, Stockley Carmichael reacted and said,  "The three terms that black people in this country should learn at birth. One is 'White Supremacy,' one is 'New York Colonialism,' and one is 'Black Power.'"

No matter what white people say...blacks were looked down upon as second class citizens. To a small degree (as much as a 5th grader could and more than most) Markie understood their frustration. They were the metaphorical Pitbull (blog post of June 29, 2013) (the little brother who was ready to explode and even strike the innocent, like Billy Lennon (though we all know  he wasn't the one who deserved it). That pent-up need for equality and justice and to finally have a voice had become a ticking time-bomb.

In the seed bed of that context every Friday - an old, black woman took the bus from Watts to the Dahlin house - she was large and squishy and beautiful. Irene spoke with a southern accent that was so thick, it was as though she was talking a different language. Barely anyone could make out what she was saying... yet despite Markie's inability to understand her words, he knew she spoke the language of love - the thing he longed for.

When the bell went off at 2:50 in Sister Godzilla's classroom. Markie darted for door...there was no time for idle chatter. Markie zigged and zagged in between the likes of Terry and Marilyn and Andrea and Theresa and "Ghering the Great" and Richard and Roberta with his mismatched shoes and raced home. His beloved beagle laid smack dab in the middle of the warm asphalt and cheerfully wagged her tail when she saw Markie rounding the corner and giving an abbreviated salute to the Blessed Virgin Mary in the Lennon Sister's front window.  

If Markie hurried, he could beat everyone home. There would be:

No Tony

No Karl

No Bob

No Kris

No Pinky

No Kurt

No Kleghorn

No Chewy

No Erick

No Charlie

No Four Eyes

No Queen of the World

No Karin and no Mrs. D.          He could have Irene all to himself.

Irene, had heroically and miraculously washed mountains of laundry...cleared one set of stairs, raked the living room and entry of its debris, made the Formica surface of the kitchen table visible, parted the red sea of newspapers, National Geographic magazines and the accumulated week's worth of clutter.

Mark saw the flag he hoisted earlier this morning (which reminded him to be on lookout for the rattlesnake that had escaped) and the foul-mouthed Mynah bird cussed at him when he walked in the front door. Markie shook his finger at the bird and said, "Shut up, you dirty bird." 

"Dirty bird. Dirty bird," the foul creature replied proudly. Mark tuned out the bird and listened for the singing.

Ears trained like radar, he had heard it up on the third floor.  He could hear the sweet melody of  "Swing Low" It was one of his and Irene's favorites. "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home." 

Rounding the third flight of stairs I could hear my beautiful Irene joyfully singing, “Well, I looked over Jordan and what did I see, coming for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me, coming for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot.” 

Feeling like a bird set free from its cage I bellowed, "I got-a wings, you got-a wings. All O' God's chillun got-a wings." I sang trying to overpower her - there'd be none of that. When I rounded the corner with my voice cracking, she dropped her broom and opened her arms like a mother bird welcoming a chick back to her nest. In I flew.  Her arms smothered me like the protecting wings of that mother bird. I was safe. It was Friday and for 20 minutes everything was all right in the world as I made contact with the elusive concept of love. 

She talked! I listened - though I couldn't understand a word she said, I laughed when she laughed at the end of her sentences - hoping my timing was right. 

Irene grabbed my hands... we danced like the Prince and Princess at a Royal Ball and she said..."You got-a wings child...you got-wings."   

Yep! For some reason - I got Irene and she got me. The Mynah bird squalked out profanities as we heard footsteps of the Wolf Pack returning home. I ran out back to finish the fort Tommy and I were working on. She finished her work...and took the bus back to Watts. This gives new meaning to acrostic; TGIF!
   

In the profound words of Dr. Seuss, in his deep theological dissertation "Horton Hears a Who," just because people are different or smaller than you remember what Horton learned, "A person is a person no matter how small."  

"It's Friday, but Sunday's Coming"