Dawning

BY G. P. GALLE

This is a short story written in 2007 about the Culture of Life and Southern Culture, written while in UA Law School. The story is meant to show the Culture of Life on the Tuscaloosa River.

When the night died, the southern landscape yawned a breeze across the treetops and a great big eye of light slowly opened, so that a spectator could see the hint of a million shades combining. These shades are called dawn. This morning dawn draped the shore on the Tuscaloosa Lake in glitter and light, bestowing the River her proper crown, kindred with the steady shimmer of her morning decor. And her untouched surface glistened.

She had visitors. Joggers used her breeze, groups in convertibles went on joyrides on the asphalt beyond. Others paid her no heed, too busy with school and other social events.

One person watched. His name was Bill. And Bill loved the event. His favorite place was not the walkway or the road. Or even the river’s crown.

This morning he (as he had every summer Saturday for five years now) rolled his khakis to his ankles, left his padded shoes behind, felt her crown beneath his toes, and finally, when he breached her surface, watched the slow ripples radiate into her. Her chill woke him up, and he grinned, the creases of his aged skin arching looked like living stone.



He looked into her. He watched life, the minnows schooling, the plants on rocks, and the far off ducks dunking, equipped with the trailing ducklings. He looked to the sky, saw the big eye of light stretch his rays to the Tuscaloosa River, as the first breach of her surface by a man. The circles spreading out in the waters. And the river soaked Bill’s spider-veined legs, and when he closed his eyes, he was transcended.

On his own surface, Bill was an average and old. He had the bags of a near ninety-year old face, the thick and burnt skin of a no-collared farmhand, a shock of white barber-cut hair slicked back with Vitalis, and brown eyes. His whole body was once an oak, remained as such, just ancient now. He still wore a hat everywhere, just like an extra in a Capra movie (which he of course removed to honor the Tuscaloosa dawn). Bill had bad knees, but refused a cane. He was stubborn, he with the corroded bones, and the dying muscles, and the crooked fingers. The whole world was giving out, but he was the same, dying no less than when he was at war.

D-day. One reason he came to the river. He rushed a different crown that day. The dark heavy boots and the gear had been so heavy in the boat over the tumultuous ocean, its tides pulling him to murderers. Had he been cognate, he might have seen the flashes in the explosions, or the light from the gunfire, or noticed the bedlam blended with the blood pounding in his head, the pressure of his heart in the chest, and his fear.
When he was launched. He had hit the water with a crash, failed to notice the taste of the salt in his mouth, and its mixture with men’s blood. Then he was on the beach. Was faster than in water. Without the water, he couldn’t appreciate the land. Later, when he was along a European countryside, he had found a stream, and bent to clean his face.

He was reflecting on these days when he heard the familiar smack on water that comes from a small craft being put in. He looked to his left, and at first saw nothing but trees. A little skiff skim then appeared, and the hum of a small motor could be heard. A boy and a girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. The boy, shirtless, was at the tiller, and the girl, bikini’d, was lazy on the bow.

They must be going together, Bill thought. Bill’s wife passed on fifteen years ago. He always thought about her. They used to go on boatrides too. She and Bill had been on a boatride on Mobile Bay, when she whispered their names combined. “Mrs. Carol Banks,” she said, and he could smell her perfume again, see her knee length skirt dance in the breeze over the bow, and he heard the waves against the hull, and watched the landscape close its eye over the horizon, the million colors spilling over them, and the yawn of a breeze through her brunette curls. Carol. His wife. She wore her hair curly, like a movie star, that’s how she looked. She would put on her swimsuit and wade in the water while he used his castnet, long before his shoulders went out. She’d get so tan in her face, and she’d turn and look back at him and the sun would glance off her face, and made her a halo. When they were married they’d go off for the weekend to Mobile bay, take the old sailboat out to lighthouse. The water was so clear and life was so simple.

He watched the two on the water. The girl was reading what appeared a glamour magazine and the boy fixed his fishing pole. Bill recognized their attitudes, the strength and boredom that comes with immortality. They spoke. The river sent it to Bill.

“I have the worst hangover,” she barked. “Oh shut up.” “I’ve got an exam on Monday.” “Thatcher, you’re gonna scare the fish. You brought your text books. Study. ” “I want to make it into medical school.” Exasperated the boy let it go. By his guesture, it appeared the conversation was the not first discussion about medical school.

Thatcher. It would seem an odd name for a girl anywhere else in America, but here it was natural. A last name made a first name. Tradition after being torn to shreds by yankees. The remnants fished and read on the Tuscaloosa river.

Thatcher. Her boyfriend was Tom. Bill could see his shaggy sun-dried hair and bronzed body. It was the recurring theme here, the wild boy who’d later become a man. He liked hunting and fishing and seer sucker. He would go into law, medicine, or sales. The surface of southern heritage. Tom spoke.

“I hate school Thatcher. Why can’t you stop studying?” “I like it. I like what it gets me.” “Yeah but you can just get married. And cook.” Thatcher nearly threw the magazine at him. Tom laughed, cupped his hand, dunked it in the river and splashed it at her.

She jumped. Not happy. “I told you I had a headache!”

“Well you do want to get married right?” “I guess.” “What about children?” “Later. Way later. Maybe.” Thatcher relaxed, dropped the magazine, bent her slender body back, let her black hair shower the bow of the boat. Her body was dark, very dark. Dark from sunning in the leisure of the southern aristocracy.

Carol had wanted children so bad. They were able to have two. The last one nearly killed her. Carol had wanted so many, so many children. She had nearly begged her children to give her grandchildren. Their eldest, Matthew, declined. He was now an artist in Los Angeles, never married. Their daughter Alice was wealthy, very wealthy, did investment banking in New York after protesting Vietnam. She had given them one granddaughter, who was now twenty-four, a Dartmouth graduate and often published in the New Yorker. Wildly successful to the yanks, Alice would come home with applause from many sides, and went to dinner parties Bill didn’t understand. She brought her boyfriend in town every once in a while. Bill didn’t like him much. Boys shouldn’t dye their hair, or have piercings. Tatoos were ok for military. Her boyfriend was not military.

The boy on the skiff put in some white headphones, and the girl put on huge sunglasses, picked up her textbook. Bill looked at the water, and saw his reflection, his old face. The wake from the skiff finally reached the shore, waves much weaker than those at D-day. They distorted Bill’s reflection, scattered the light in all directions. He lost sight of the life underneath the surface, but he knew the minnows were still there, and the plant life  Even if it were destroyed in the current time, the river would let it return.

And then something new. Laughter. Laughter of children. He heard it distant at first, then gradually it came closer, and at last he looked to his right and saw the river’s crown decorated with a crowd of children. All races. A man of the cloth in front, and the parents trailing, chatting happily. But the children, the children were ecstatic. Sunlight bounced off their half-naked and young skin, and their tenor and sopranos went across the entire river. They dashed comfortably into the water. Bill saw Tom and Thatcher, annoyed, start the motor and were soon out of sight. The old man turned back to the new scene.

“Don’t go too far!” Cried one of the parents. “Its not safe. And watch for sticks and things in the water.”
The river crashed every which way, and the minnows and plants were replaced by little legs. The kids squealed at the cold water, and tossed it at one another. Everywhere, they splashed, jumping and romping, inventing games with twigs, sometimes hurting one another and fighting, but overall having the grandest time. It made Bill think of his children when they were younger, and how they’d all go to Mobile bay. It was before all the mess of their teens, and the protests, and the new music, and the drugs. They had so much fun. And then he saw her.

Just beyond the man of the cloth, and two parents, was a radiant woman, who looked just like his Carol. Mrs. Carol Banks. He watched her, his wife with a new haircut and clothes of a new generation, on the crown of the Tuscaloosa River.

Last reflection. His Carol. The Carol he loved. Carol with the white curls, the wrinkles he knew so well. Carol who had been sick, very sick for several years then. Bill, the no-collared famhand who’d been in the navy, had worked and worked and worked. Became a CEO. Allotted a fortune. His Carol. She got ill. He quit to take care of her. Bought a house off the beach, so she could hear the shore. Hear the Gulf Shore. He rolled her wheelchair on the deck at sunrise, watch the glint off the water, saw the dolphins breaching in the morning calm. She passed and he sold the place. Went to Tuscaloosa. Small job.

Bill approached the parents. “Hi,” he said in an his old, lower class southern accent.” “Well hello,” said the man of the cloth, equipped with a heavy African accent and a powerful bass voice. “Sorry for the racket. ”
“Its wonderful,” said Bill. “I haven’t seen this much fun in years.” Then she walked up. The new Carol. The brunette, dark eyes, just like his wife. “Well hi!” she said, gentile. “I’m Brook. Now who are you?” “Bill Banks. That you for having me over.” “Great to meet you! I hope you we didn’t kill your quiet time. We’ve been trying to get these children together. We all go to Church together, and it just seemed like it’d be so much fun for them. We had to find a safe spot on the river.”

“It is, and ya’ll stay here, you’re not botherin me one bit. I get to do this every Saturday.” He gave a wink, his opened eye twinkling. “Mrs. Brook, you don’t have any distant family in Mobile do you?”

“No, don’t think so, we are all Birmingham and Montgomery I think.” “You just look like someone I knew.”

“Well I get that from time to time!” she said chuckling. “Are you kin to any Swells?” “Probably. I’m just rediscovering the heritage. And you know the south, we’re all cousins somehow!”

Something caught the eye of Bill and he looked down. A small dolphin crested on the ankle of Brook’s ankle. A tatoo. She saw him look.

“Oh that thing.” she said somewhat embarassed, “Another time another place. Past is past I guess, and sometimes we do things that are permanent we wish we could take back. That would be one of them for me. I tell you what though. I found the real secret,” she said, and pointed, one eye closed, as if aiming at the children. “If you want to be happy, there’s the secret.” Then “Lakeson!” she said yelling at one of the children, “Be careful with that stick!” She turned and smiled again. “They’ll drive you crazy. Weird, its the kind of crazy you learn makes you really happy.”

A man walked up. Bill was again taken aback, for he felt he was looking at himself. Young again, cut, and with a huge white smile. His eyes were brown, and Bill noticed a brown strap coming just out from under his baby blue polo. Bill had seen that little piece of leather before, when he was in war. Part of a scapular.
“Hi, the man said in a baritone, effectively completing the chorus, “I’m William.” Brook wrapped her arm around his waist, “This is Bill, honey. He’s letting us use his beach.”

“Oh he is is he? Well thanks Bill!” William extended a hand while winking. “So what do you do around here Bill?” “Well I moved here a few years back, I am a nightwatchman at the University.” “Now there is a job! Staying up all night. I admire that! And I think my job is going to kill me! Of course if it doesn't, our three out there (pointing to the kids in the water), might!”

“Will...” said Brook, and she nudged him in his side. “Kidding! We’ll have another soon, good Lord willing.” Bill smiled comfortably, and feeling a connection he’d forgotten. He propped his arm on his hip, and watched the children, jumping, running, crying, living. They played within his love, that queen overseeing the south. And she took them in comfortably, her surface taken over by the little heads and growing bodies. One day they’d have stronger arms and longer legs, and venture into her deeper water, where the brown surface would give away to cooler water underneath. There would be larger fish to catch, and big gators to be wary of. And they would ski. And fish. And sun. And tan. Bill stood on the crown, reflecting on the future, while the children played in the shallows, boundless and safe, splashing and spreading the light into millions of rays. And rainbows came in the subsequent mist.

About GP Galle G.P. Galle, Jr. has spent over 10 years studying the intersection of faith, politics, and pop culture. He is a writer and producer, previous works including A Dream Worth Living a culture of live musical, and vivace, a Christian Art extravaganza. He has a law degree from the University of Alabama Law School, and graduate magna cum laude from Auburn University.