31

A new day. A new life continues.

The New Boy.

We’ve spent the last week here in Oklahoma of all places.  We hadn’t planned on coming here at this time but Xena was so freaked out that I headed south and landed up here at Ponca Lake for the week.

Our last morning in Kansas, at least for the time being, until later on this week, started fine, but ended up with Xena and Rosie both loosing their heads, at least a little, anyway.

We were exploring the area when we came to a small community and decided to stop at the city park and stretch our legs and give Rosie a break from riding in the van when dozens and dozens of motorcycles started passing down the main street.  Actually, there wasn’t much more than a main street anyway.  There were other people in the park and we all sort of watched the cycles pass, one boy a few feet away counted over 70 of them and they were still coming. 

They turned a few blocks away and there engines pretty much died as they seemed to stop down that street.

“It’s the funeral,” a woman who seemed to be in charge of the boy said to us, just to make conversation.

We looked at her and she continued, sort of proud to be an information person.

“It’s the soldier boy that was killed over in the Arab lands.  She pronounced it AyRabb.  “It’s today they’re going to bury him.  It took a few days for his family to get here.  They were all over the country.  Those motorcycles are here for the family.”

“He must have liked those cycles,” Xena tried to be friendly.  She tried to fit in, not having much luck before we hooked up last fall.

“No, not that I’ve ever heard of,” she said.  “I never heard of any motorcycles in the family, but then,” she raised her head higher, “I’ve only known the family since I was born.”

“Well, it’s awful nice of those riders to come and have all those flags on the bikes,” Xena continued to make friendly.

“Honey, where you been?”  The woman said, giving Xena a raised eyebrow.

“Well,” Xena started to answer her, thinking that it was a real question and not just conversation, but the woman continued.

“Those riders go all over the country and ride in funerals so those crazy church people don’t bother the family.  They won’t let them get close to the loved ones.”

“Crazy church people?”

I looked at Xena; I knew she was thinking of those church people who chased us back in Missouri.  Xena had turned pale, paler than I’ve ever seen her.  She stood and looked down the street, her arms crossed and her lips tight.

“Yep, they came in last night and stayed in the parking lot down at the fish pond.  They don’t spend local money, not that anyone here would take their trashy money anyway.”

Xena started walking away from the lady and her son, edging back to the van, not looking back to see if I followed.

“Think that the mountain preacher’s family joined up with the Kansas kooks?” She said as I came around to the driver’s side and opened the door.

“Don’t know, do you want to find out?”

“Yeah, we can’t not know.”

We drove closer to the edge of town and stopped a little ways from a community graveyard and got out.  There were others there, many with little flags.  Down at the corner, came a few people with signs, nothing was said but as soon as the sign people stopped at the corner some local police walked in front of them and stood silently looking at the sign people.  Yep!  There they were the mountain church people, among the sign holders.  The whole family was there, including the teenage boy and girl, and the little ones, and the mother, plus what looked like church members from somewhere.

Xena and I stood behind the townspeople and watched as the cycle people came and stood in front of the protesters.  Nothing was said, it was eerily silent while the motorcade passed by them and into the cemetery.  Then, after the hearse and other cars had passed, then the shouting began.  Both sides yelled.  There were more of the cycle people and they drowned out the sign holders.  The police were watching and trying not to take sides but you could see that they didn’t like the church people.

After a little while the services in the graveyard had evidently finished and the cars started to come back out.  That’s when we stumbled onto the crazies. 

“Lookee!” We turned and saw the teenage girl pointing at Xena.  We were walking back to the van when we accidentally walked by an alley where their bus had been parked. 

“Pa,” she yelled and pointed at Xena, “there’s that she-devil from back home.”  She started towards us, waving at her pa and anyone else who could confront us.  Before I even knew that she would do anything she had picked up a rock and threw in at Xena.  Missing her by few inches, but her brother and pa had seen us and were approaching us. 

I’d like to say that the motorcycle people, or the cops or someone from the funeral came to our aid, but they didn’t.  It was a couple of high school boys who were looking for a fight who stepped in and started toward the family.  Big farm boys, like back home, everyone knew not to mess with boys off the farm, in town, looking to break their boredom.  Even the preacher wasn’t dumb enough to mess with them. 

“Wait,” the preacher said, “you wait.”  He retreated to his bus with his family.

Why they so hated Xena I didn’t know, and she wouldn’t tell me, if she knew.  Maybe they were just hateful on principle and she was their target.

“Sorry about that,” one of the boys said.  He was dressed 50’s style with white t-shirt, jeans and boots.  “We don’t put up with crap like that.  If it wasn’t for the funeral we wouldn’t ‘low them to stop here.”

Anyway, that was last week and now we were at the lake in Oklahoma and Xena wanted a story.  That’s how I told her about The New Boy.