Beware the pastor pulpit
Committee
Who sift through many, many
To choose one who will
Come to your fair city
With eyes bigger than reality
And say, we must erect a tabernacle
That will spire to heaven
Convincing all but two men
To go along with the dream
And so they begin their building
Selling their prime location
And all the yes men then abandon
Leaving the tabernacle without a spire
And then the man the pulpit committee chose
Tires
And leaves for a home garage
Meanwhile the prime property becomes
An O Reilly’s
And the pastor is long gone somewhere
Out in West Flardy.
Beware the pastor pulpit committee
lest you end up with an O Reilly.
John Clare Stokes
Where has our little Lute gone today?
His dego hoe leans unworked against the magnolia
The family cow swishes the flies
Waiting her milking
Mother hen broods upon her ungathered clutch.
Back broken down the furlough in the heat
Curt leans into the scots plough
Molly mule determined to pull home
Tempers steeled and growing hotter.
Over in the back forty cotton field
Marzelle mends again the broken barbs
Muscles straining refusing to yield
To wires snapping in times so hard.
Beneath the cool porch Irene and Hazel pray
Their Kitty Kat congregation captured near
All awaiting from above a word sent their way
Pass the plate! Your Maker fear!
Across the black top thirty-one at the store
Earnest hears the Trailways from Meridian
Too soon to send his sons to wars distant shores
Homewood! Homewood, the driver calls to
Passengers sleeping.
To the Shongelo shade Lute has roamed
So far from his dear mothers call
In the cool woods soon the light is gone
The clock stops down in the darkened hall
When clearly, Lute hears the call of longed for voices
The Shongelo shadows lift, gone for good
Returned safe, Luther Ray, in a loving embrace of
Ethel Marie, the family welcomes him home to the eternal Homewood.
Rev Luther Ray “Lute” Stokes
Oct 16, 1924
Mar 11, 2011
Moments before I was to play a hymn on my harmonica at our father’s funeral out at the entrance of Orange Hill Cemetery in Williston, I did not know what I would play. It was then out Pastor Wes Smith said that daddy once told him what his favorite hymn was. Grace, Grace Gods Grace. I thanked God and Wes for answering and proceeded to play it unpracticed.
You would have thought I’d have known for many a day we spent humming hymns, listening to him out- singing the choirs, but so much we didn’t talk about as we went about our various tasks of planting, pruning, making syrup, fishing, hunting and on.
We as a family miss greatly to this day the little runt of the family from Homewood, Mississippi who was larger than life
Some tools just fit
just right in the hand
Not always at first
But after years of breaking in
Today I pruned the briars
From the fence
Not so much out of
it needed it
But simply for the feel of it
He knew just how and when
To prune
It was the essential part
Of the latter growth
Taking the plant
back to its essence
In these hands
It’s more the butcher
Cutting with abandon
Jeopardizing future beauty
But in his hands
Every cut as from above.
john clare stokes
There I stood in that circle of
No entry the creatures decreed
By God to fear me everything
Keeping its distance
The turkey in the hammock
The deer in the dense beyond
The Eagles in the nest above
Only the Cardinals dared enter
The forbidden space
Scolding me to move along
Disturbing the slow order
With my presence
Long before they accepted
I was well on my way
Leaving a scent trail
Smelling death the entire way.
As the boy sat looking out the upstairs window overlooking East Washington Street, it reminded him of sitting in the same window in Sopchoppy overlooking Rose Street from the abandoned house next door. This new town to which his family had moved, the second move of his young life, was huge compared to Sopchoppy. The traffic never ceased as it made its way from four highways all ending with a circling around the Jeffersonian Courthouse. The town even had a candy store and Priest Dime Store, a far cry from the two grocery stores of Sopchoppy. While he missed the river across the street, there were many new neighborhoods to explore. He had his own bike since wearing out his sisters and his summer days were spent riding uptown to that candy store with the many glass jars full of treats and going up and down the oak lined avenues with the historical register homes. His mother had enrolled him in his first painting class and he eagerly rode the bike down the hill over to Mrs Groves carrying his paint and canvas under one arm. His mother recognized early his penchant for drawing from the many sermons he illustrated on his fathers church bulletins. It was the best of times for the young artist as he had no care for what others thought, no care for proficiency, just a joy of painting for painting sake. To him the works were masterful. It was only years later he was disappointed when he visited his Aunt and Uncle in Atlanta to find his painting of the mountain lion hidden behind the couch. He did not understand. Paintings of such quality were to be valued, hung in prominence.
But that was years later. For now, it was good thinking these gifts were valued. The boy though young had in his heart a desire for companionship well beyond his third grade. He fully intended to marry Helen Roussey from Panacea and even envisioned sitting on her couch with her sisters and father.
This was all dashed when Miss Townsend, his teacher, whom he also loved, announced to the class he was moving to Monticello. John Lloyd, his best friend who shared a desk with him, immediately let out a loud and long cry. The boy was crushed as well. Who would Helen now marry?
This new school he now attended had three third grades. He couldn't fathom so many people his own age. It was in Mrs Floyd's class the boy gave his secret love away. She looked much like Helen with the dark hair, but to him, her long black curled hair made her all the more beautiful. How could the shy boy tell her of his love? On the playground at PE the cruel coach had all play ring around the Rosie and the last to fall down would have to tell his girl or boyfriends name. This terrified him. He was loathe to reveal this secret love.
He made certain he did not fall last.
The boy found in this new town that girls took notice of athletic prowess. The day Coach Cooksey announced a third grade race to determine the fastest runner in all three grades, he had no great expectations. He knew Jimmy Haines was the fastest. He was first in first and second grade races.
The day came and the whistle blew. A mass of legs moved rapidly down the hill, the boy running behind Jimmy. At the turn around, the boy and Jimmy were tied. Half way back up the hill, Jimmy faded and the Yellowjacket overtook and beat the Tiger.
This shy boy was now the fastest boy of all. This gave the Cub Scout new confidence. Perhaps Deborah Daniels would now take notice. He could start planning their marriage. It took awhile, as confidence in youth takes much building, but he finally drew enough courage to compose the love note, that I love you, do you love me? Check yes, no, maybe. He knew not how to deliver this message and the day came when he lost all sense of secrecy and simply tried to pass the note three rows over and two up to her. It was somewhere on row two that Mrs Floyd saw what was going on and abruptly intercepted the note. To the boys terror he just knew he would have to read aloud the note. But to his everlasting relief, Mrs Floyd simply threw it in the trash.
The boy never mustered the courage again and soon it was announced that he was moving to Wilmore, Kentucky. No JL to cry, no Deborah to marry, she would never know of his love.
And so he moved and so there in Mrs Turners fourth grade beneath the desk in one of her many Cold War bomb drills, he passed the note to April Wells. And the next day came her reply as he walked her to Girl Scouts, Yes! yes!yes! With hearts and kisses across the page.
He dreamed of many children.
But then it too was announced, this boy was moving to Williston.
Johnclarestokes
Into the deep dark wood
we often must go
far from the sound of
joy, the familiar ones
a deep dark wood where
the light is dim around
but even there in the
dark surround
the sound of one above
a familiar song
Not quite so strong as
when in the brightest light
Nevertheless
a sweet song in the night.
Mockingbird singing
Front yard
Johnclarestokes
I’ve gone through the litany
Of the trees I miss greatly
The fig of my father’s was one
It grew in Williston
The persimmon puckering
Up in Wakulla County
Cherry at grandmothers picking
In Bluefield, West Virginia
Cedar for the clearest view
By the Williston white parsonage
Sweetgum I could once hurdle
Still beside Williston Methodist
The oak with the platform
Out from Blue Grotto with Eddie
Pecan with the first swing
In good ole Sopchoppy
And lest we forget the kumquat
With best friend Robert there too
Walnut over the homeplace shading
So many memories
in the making
Johnclarestokes
Some tools just fit
just right in the hand
Not always at first
But after years of breaking in
Today I trained the muscadines
on the nine gauge wire
Not sure where to cut them
Needing him who knew exactly
He knew just how and when
To prune with the Felco
It was the essential part
Of the latter growth
Assuring the vine
would thrive in time
In these hands
It’s more the butcher
Cutting with a prayer
Jeopardizing future fruit
But in his hands
Every cut as from above.
Griff and Bell
I could return time and again to the Williston area. Many would say it void of beauty. Perhaps I am biased by my living there, my father being buried there. Beauty to me there abounds, from the mysterious grotto's, to the open expanses of the peanut fields, to the intimate oak lined lanes. I cannot image a place I would rather photograph.
