Five Miles to Paradise

2

The most striking thing about his truck was what T-Bone always referred to as the best idea that had ever seeped into his stubborn skull. It had been over a decade since inspiration sparked. Heck never knew what ignited T-Bone's creative bend, but something had.

There they were, and you couldn't miss them, unless you were dead drunk or stone blind. And Heck didn't, as he warily stepped up behind the truck. Hanging proudly from the back end of the bed were two full-sized American flags. T-Bone begged them off Sadie Lester from the post office when new flags were sent to replace old ones.

The still rich, deep colors were striking against the faded metal and worn wood. Cleverly tied with ropes onto two weather-beaten broom sticks, the flags provided fluttering displays as T-Bone rolled up and down the back country dirt roads. The wind was still, so the twin symbols slept peacefully in graceful folds on either side of the truck's tail gate like elegant wrappings on a pauper's coffin. 

Solemn and stately.

In the gray light of the early morning, Heck noticed T-Bone's two latest additions were more worn than usual, but they were not so ragged that the old man would have considered throwing them away.

Not just yet.

'Tatty but not torn ta' pieces,' T-Bone might have said.

Heck was positive that in the old man's mind, those two flags were no where near the point of having to be burned. They were far from threadbare, and they were miles away from the line that separated worn from worn out. T-Bone would have insisted this had he been standing beside the sheriff.

An empty hollow feeling suddenly filled the pit of Heck's stomach.

Heck let the blunt end of his index finger trace a line down the damp cloth of the flag nearest him. His touch crushed the dewy droplets into the weave, leaving a trailing worm of moisture that traced a tearful path toward the ground.

* * *

Thayard Jackbo Bone had been a fixture in LaFayettah County, Mississippi for over sixty years. Known as simply T-Bone, he lived in a tiny shack on a few acres of land deeded to his family after the Great War. With minimal effort, he managed to wheedle enough from his acreage to keep gas in his truck, clothes on his back, and food on his table. His wants were simple. He often referred to 'small sums' that kept him going, and he was always taking on any odd job that might be offered.

Heck never knew a more skilled day laborer. No job was too little or too tough for the grizzly, old geezer, if he was in the mood to work that day. He was a genius when it came to laying stone or brick. 

There was no wood that would not bend to T-Bone's wishes, and his skill as a master carpenter was known for miles around. There wasn't a motor this side of the Mason-Dixon he couldn't make purr like a kitten. He mended fences, dug post holes, and picked cotton. 

He was a wizard with tools of any description. His hands had the strength of a locomotive running at full steam and the precision of a surgeon completing delicate operations. T-Bone was so good that he could pick and choose whatever paying offer struck his fancy. 

But like just about everyone else in rural Mississippi, he'd been hit hard by the Depression. Everyone was tightening their belts and making do with less. 

He accepted the occasional odd job, tended his small vegetable garden, and milked his lone milk cow, Pixie. When the mood struck, he took off in his truck with his pole and a can of worms and fished the day away.

Heck often spotted the old pickup parked by the roadside. Most colored folks were careful to stay out of sight if they were fishing on someone's property. Not this light-skinned colored man.