Little Acorn (F)

That the acorn does not fall far from the tree does not in this particular case apply. This little acorn fell from the tree, bounced several times until it reached a well-worn path, tumbled with some assistance from a downslope wind, and travelled and travelled and then skipped over a late season dandelion and continued downhill for another 37 feet where it came to rest in a patch of topsoil exposed to full sun year-round.

The acorn spoken of metaphorically was born to Faye D--, who until that moment, at 41, had been childless. The father, who ran the general store and post office on the north side of the river, was 45. He, Wes, was a bit unsure that such an event could in fact take place. But, it did.

The boy, named for a distant relative who might have been a war hero or a spy for the other side, so early on began to speak of worldly matters that adults in the little hillside community whispered of foreign intrigue as the more interesting possibility. At the very least, as the local midwife suggested, Cal’s extended stay in his mother’s womb allowed for the transmission of something more. These are her exact words: That boy got something extra in the recipe.

Cal’s first full sentence—witnessed by both parents, a neighbor, and a store customer who came by the house after-hours to pick up a box of finishing nails—was uttered the same moment he first walked more than half-a-dozen steps. The little boy looked up, spread his arms, and proclaimed, “That, my people, is a sky for the ages”.

But let me skip ahead to an incident in the fourth grade. Cal, along with his 13 other classmates, was busying about with a multiplication worksheet when he set down his Eagle Sun #2 pencil, eased himself from his desk, excused himself and walked out the door. On the balls of his feet, he ghosted down to the principal’s office and without a word took a seat in the small waiting area.

The long-widowed Mrs. Sophie, secretary and nurse and bell-ringer and postal clerk on Saturday mornings, when so many folks retrieved their mail, peered over her reading glasses at the boy. “You sick, Cal?” The boy stuck his legs out and stared at his brown loafers. “Mrs. Janice send you down here?” 

He glanced up at the clock.

“You hearing me?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You need to see Mr. Biggs?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Well, Mr. Biggs is not here. Should I call your mama?”

Unresponsive—that is what Mrs. Sophie would tell his mother—who then relayed the message to his father: Something is wrong at the school. Cal is unresponsive.

By the time Wes could drive the 12.7 miles to the school, the lunch period had arrived, and so Mrs. Sophie, Mrs. Janice, and the itinerant music teacher, a 22-year-old-lad just graduated from the state teacher’s college, were gathered in front of Cal. The father squatted before his son, while the others stood behind him, the trio leaning in as if they too were going to have a turn at the boy.

“Cal, are you sick?”

 

“No, Sir.”

“Did something happen in the classroom?”

“No, Sir.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, Cal, I would like to understand, but I can’t unless you say something.”

The adults seemed to breathe in unison, waiting.

“If life is suffering, I want to choose my suffering whenever possible, so I would rather suffer all the punishment in the world than ever come back to school ever in my entire life.”

Nearly in the same moment, Mrs. Sophie: “Lawd-a-mercy, this child!” Mrs. Janice: “He cannot!” The itinerant music teacher, very much under his breath: “What the hell?” Then, out loud,”Is that some kind of Buddhist thing?”

Wes rocked back on his heels and sat on the floor. After a pause, he said quietly, “Well, Cal, I don’t know about your suffering, but your mama is going to cry her eyes out.”

The 6-year-old, our Little Acorn, stood and set his hands on his father’s shoulders. “I am truly sorry about that. But, remember Dad, some things just can’t be helped.”  Ladson 2014