It was Saturday morning.
We were having cereal around the family dining table. Old Daddy by now was finished cleaning catfish after a successful morning, fishing with cronies. They usually, by this time, sat around the cracker barrel on the porch of the county store. To plan the Church's weekly catfish supper, though it was the same each week.
So I suspect they used the opportunity to also play cards. The men would return to the fields. Then, by sunset, go back to the county store. Mama always claimed it was fair, yet praised Old Daddy nonetheless.
So it seemed a normal day. With no school, no plans--at least until Old Daddy came home and assigned chores. None of us dreamed it would prove to be a wildly exciting, yet dangerous morning.
Our neighbor Old "Aunt" Hattie came by in her morning house coat. That early, she never bothered to remove the curlers from her hair or change into her house dress. She'd just walk through the field from next door, knock on the back porch entrance, and waltz right in.
We were never surprised. Nor by her famous housecoat, slippers and home-salon stretch turban.
She and Mama would have coffee. I supposed they did so most other mornings, too since, whenever I was home from school, I'd spy on them.
This particular morning was different. Because an airplane roared so close to the house that we all stopped, mid-conversation. Mama turned white. We asked if it was an air raid; we of course never experienced one, but knew about them from TV.
We all ran out front to see. Our cousins had just come over to play. But Aunt Hattie sprinted ahead of us. She ran and ran. And she ran. All the way to the schoolhouse.
We kids followed her. With Mama trailing us.
Aunt Hattie not only ran, but screamed the whole way there. I never knew she had the lungs for it, her being such an avid pipe smoker.
What a sight we were.
To onlookers it might have seemed we were chasing that poor woman. Why else would she run screaming from us in her morning housecoat, slippers and rollers coming loose from under her turban?
By the time we caught up to her, we watched the plane come down. And disappear behind the schoolhouse with a boom. Aunt Hattie, still screaming, ran around to the schoolyard out back.
The sheriff car and fire truck sounded their alarms. When Mama saw the thick, black smoke rising from behind the schoolhouse, she wouldn't let us keep going.
"But Aunt Hattie might get hurt," said Ralphie. He took off to save her. Mama couldn't stop him or us. We followed Aunt Hattie, Mama right along.
There was Aunt Hattie, met by the pilot. He'd ejected by parachute and had just got up off the ground, having landed on the lawn away from all the wreckage. Assuring Hattie there were no passengers. Being Saturday, no kids were in the schoolyard. So no one was hurt.
The sheriff and fire department arrived. So did old Doc Lodine.
I'll never forget that sight. Old Daddy, Uncle and their cronies jumped off the side of the volunteer fire truck. They hosed down the little fires, here and there. Ralphie said it was to prevent spreading to the woods edging the schoolyard. I said, "The schoolhouse, neither."
But Ralphie kept fingers crossed. Our cousins dug elbows in their sides. Making no secret how they hoped the woods would survive, but not the schoolhouse. Mama was not amused.
But my eyes were on the "grotto."
Where daily I'd bring my offering: a fresh Lilly-of-the-Valley or other bouquet. Though the little outdoor sanctuary was just a trellis over a garden statue of Mother Mary, to me it was a grotto. I'd read Mama’s book about Saint Bernadette.
Not two feet from the grotto burned halves of a molten mass. One of my cousins said they were pieces of the Cessna engine. He also pointed out its high wings, fuselage, and various parts. Separated, mostly crushed and scattered about the lot.
Our local newspaper owner (and only reporter) arrived. Snapped photos. I told Mama, confidentially, that it was the Blessed Mother who, because of our school's daily rosary, saved the pilot. My young mind saw no other possibility.
Mama was too stunned to reply. Then, the Sisters of Charity came from the convent. Asked Mama to please escort us home. We lingered, and the sisters ignored us. Because now, like Mama, they were mesmerized.
The pilot got out of his harness and walked, unaided. First over to the sheriff, then Doc, who gave the A-Okay to our reporter. Who went over to get the scoop.
The pilot was about to get in the Sheriff’s car to go file the report.
He spotted Aunt Hattie. Stopped, gave her a big smile and wink. Then saluted. She, unconcerned about having run all this way from Mama's coffee klatch dressed like that, was no longer screaming. Because she kept her hand over her mouth.
Mama put an arm around Old Aunt Hattie's shoulder. They were silent, while we chattered the whole way home.
We were too engrossed in play to think of checking the weekly paper that night. And, though expert at picking up any sort of adult gossip to relay to the boys, I heard nothing. Neither did they for, if they had, they'd want to be the ones to tell me.
I still wonder about that day.
Which story made headlines? The crashed Cessna? Or Aunt Hattie's human siren that preceded the authorities, still in her leisure attire.
I also wonder about faith. Of a little child who, without doubt, claimed to know why the pilot survived.
Image credit: markus53 at pixabay.com
Flash Fiction story © by KT Fabler - Thanks for reading.
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