{"id":3676,"date":"2022-05-20T14:52:17","date_gmt":"2022-05-20T21:52:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/?p=3676"},"modified":"2024-12-09T10:03:51","modified_gmt":"2024-12-09T18:03:51","slug":"tobacco-road-a-proper-elegy-for-my-father-by-gary-copeland-lilley","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/tobacco-road-a-proper-elegy-for-my-father-by-gary-copeland-lilley\/","title":{"rendered":"“Tobacco Road & A Proper Elegy for My Father” by Gary Copeland Lilley"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"issue73\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Found in\u00a0Willow Springs 73<\/em><\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back to Author Profile<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

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“Tobacco Road & A Proper Elegy for My Father” by Gary Copeland Lilley<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

A Proper Elegy for My Father<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He is the black Marlboro man, the oldest son of a one-legged, gold\u00ad tooth rounder. Abandoned homes down the road have fallen into ruin. Everything dies hard here, collapses into the kudzu pulling it down. This is the low-ground, the land of the maroons from the Great Dismal Swamp. Nothing lasts forever. The honeysuckle from the ditch bank and from the woods behind the house is in the air tonight, with the croaking of frogs and the waxing moon. A soft touch of Southern intoxication and I almost don’t want to light my cigarette, but I do. This is North Carolina, the tobacco state, even though most farmers nowadays are paid to not grow it. Here, traditions die hard. Out of the fog, plantation ghosts and Jim Crow walk tall, persistent as the oppressive kudzu, as old as the Dixie lost cause. We are born into this, and if we are lucky our fathers prepare us to live in it. Show us how to stand and throw down. Food for the table: they teach us to fish and hunt, to enjoy setting the hook, the recoil of the  shotgun, the striking of the target. The rural cycle of life, everything dies hard here. Except  my father: a scowl and a growl, a piney woods drawl, a drinkero f dirty water, a two-fisted church deacon, a logwood man, a long-haul truck driving Korean War veteran whose face was set so <\/em>serene in his coffin that it was evident he’d died in his sleep. Unafraid as death approached, he’d said he was going to take a nap. His thick-fingered friends: a gathering of old crows weeping into their handkerchiefs at the wake. I say to myself, look at him, old\u00ad black-man-cool in the blue suit that he will wear forever. Who doesn’t want to die like that, nothing coming down the road but eternal rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tobacco Road<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nI am fourteen, two years into my social isolation
\nafter we moved from the grime and blacktop
\nbasketball courts of my New York neighborhood
\nback to the piney woods and struggling farms of the                       North Carolina coastal plains.
\nI was the funny talking city boy that every local boy
\nwanted to fight, until they accepted the fact
\nthat I would fight dirty. I would pick up anything,
\nand my favorite was a smooth fist-size rock. Nobody
\nwants to get cracked side the head with that.
\nI spent summer mornings bare-chested, shirt tied
\nround my waist, running through the woods
\nwith my dog, and if they were ripe, eating wild grapes
\ngolden in the daps of sun, the vines hanging
\nfrom some low branch of a tree; running through
\nthe deer beds, scaring up rabbits, and avoiding
\nthe occasional snake or bear. Every day
\nmy voice changing, back and forth, from a soft lilt
\nto the scratch inhabiting any song I try to sing.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

II.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nMr. Luther Grant
\nwas coming through
\nthe field between
\nour houses doing
\nhis old pirate step.
\nHis youngest brother
\nhad chopped three toes
\noff his right foot
\nwhen he’d put it
\non the block and dared
\nhim to swing
\nthe double-bladed axe.
\nI was peeling
\npotatoes on the porch
\nand when he saw
\nme he spit
\nthe plug of tobacco
\nfrom his mouth
\nand the way
\nhe set his jaw
\nindicated he had
\nsomething bad to say.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

III.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nQueenie killed five of Mr. Luther Grant’s chickens,
\nthey say a dog that does that never stops.
\nShe then laid herself among the dead birds,
\nsurprised that they had stopped squawking, a game
\nof chase and catch where each chicken stopped
\ntrying to fly away into the early afternoon heat.
\nShe’d killed five in the treeless yard before she grew tired
\nof them and came back across the field, dropping
\nthe last one halfway between the two houses.
\nI know Mr. Luther Grant had a right reason to be
\nupset; they say a dog that kills chickens never stops.
\nShe was a city dog, my Uncle Willie’s dog,
\nwhich he’d placed in my care after he was drafted
\nand knew he was going to Vietnam. His one\u00ad-
\nbedroom apartment had been Queenie’s home.
\nShe slept at the foot of his bed and they went
\non daily runs in the park. When Willie gave his dog to me
\nI’d begged my father not to put her on the chain.
\nOne of the few times I’ve seen him agree to anything
\nthat wasn’t his idea. And now, my dog Queenie
\nkilled five of Luther Grant’s egg-laying chickens,
\nand they say a dog that does that won’t ever stop.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

IV.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nMy father was drinking in the kitchen while
\nreading his Bible. He comes out, and greets
\nLuther Grant in the yard. They purposely
\nkeep their eyes off me but are talking loud
\nenough to ensure that I can hear them. They are
\nformally polite. My mother washing dishes, watches
\neverything through the kitchen window and
\nlooks her sorrow down on me and begins
\na hymnal song, We<\/em>‘<\/em>l<\/em>l<\/em>Understan<\/em>d<\/em>It<\/em>Better
\n<\/em>By and By. <\/em>Queenie, on the porch panting
\nin the late afternoon corner of shade, is not allowed
\nin the house. My mother says all animals belong
\noutside. She dries her hands with the dish towel,
\ndrapes the soft cloth on the kitchen sink.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

V.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nMy mother steps out on the tilting porch,
Let <\/em>me help you <\/em>peel <\/em>those taters.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/em>\nWe sit together on the glide and work silently.
\nA crow lights on the willow near the porch and calls.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \nQueenie perks her ears, waiting to see if it would
\ncome to ground. I am glad that it does not.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \nLuther Grant stops talking, pulls out his chaw, and turns
\nto leave. My father promises to take care of it.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

VI.<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

\nWe are in  the woods and the sun
\nis shining on the loblolly pines,
\ntwilight, a hint in the near distance.
\nNot a cloud in the Carolina sky.
\nWe pass a tree of wild golden grapes,
\nthe vines hanging heavy off the low branches.
\nFlirting birds chatter at the abundance.
\nMy father walks a quick-step ahead
\nwhile my dog trots beside me; he has
\nordered me to come along, but I refuse
\nto carry the shovel or the loaded gun.<\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":25234,"featured_media":644,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"wpo365_audiences":[],"wpo365_private":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3676","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured-work"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3676"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/25234"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3676"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3676\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":37552,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3676\/revisions\/37552"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/644"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3676"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3676"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3676"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}