Buddah

After his parents died, Hubert turned the house over to Otto and his wife. Hubert and Alma moved back to Dayton, to make good money and pull in five channels. They return to Punkin River for funerals and for Decoration Day. A new car each trip tells of their continuing cleverness. Though he's old and bent-backed, Hubert still has that smile that makes you want to treat some child to ice cream. Maybe even scratch a stray pup under its chin. Punkin River hasn't changed much. Anew school. A video store. A rich house or two, gained from strip-mining. Atop those houses—and even welfare shacks—few aluminum fingers now point to the sky. Cable, with its more subtle wires, has become almost as necessary as the "new electricity", the "newer" telephones. That section of Appalachia has started honoring its heroes. Roads have taken on the names of pioneers. A few counties away, Dwight Yokum and Patty Loveless have become streets. I'd like to build a monument to Hubert Fletcher and his "theater." Maybe a huge aluminum rack upon the mountain that first bounced those signals down to his house. And I'd drape around that rack enough ribboned wire to stretch to New York, or Hollywood. Buddah Buddha hangs around my neck, but inside I'm Christian-born and raised by those who did not live it. They were not thieves, but they drank and never got along. Daddy always cheated and accused Mommy Of things he did himself, called her Jezebel. Their strangest argument was one they had most: Who was going to be the first to die. He won, though I don't think it counts Because he brought it on himself, Paint thinner down the throat one hot summer night. Mommy lived on ten more years, cursed him For dying, for winning their crazy argument. Buddha hangs around my neck, Because I know that what is inside counts. —Tina Rae Collins 65 ...