Kismet

It was wonderful to be nine and out of school. When it snows in the South most everything shuts down. When the snow is followed by sleet everything shuts down. This was one of those times when the ground was covered with ice. I prayed for winter storms during school, not because I loved the snow, but because I hated school. Even now I can only remember a few happy times in a classroom. I especially hated math. Numbers would twist and turn on the pages and answers to what were simple problems to most almost always turned out wrong for me. The more I failed at mathematical tasks the more anxious I became and the cycle continued for years. Other subjects did not present themselves to me with the same misery, but they did fall into categories of boring and useless. Day in and day out teachers pressed me to learn what they considered to be important for my success in life, and each day I resisted their assembly line teaching tactics. I disliked education, I disliked the teachers, and I hated sitting in those hard wooden desks for hours each day. I was in a POW camp using my imagination to keep me sane in the prison of my youth - school. But this day was different. I was on release for good behavior. Old man winter had come to my rescue and for a short few days I was free.

The neighborhood kids gathered on the street bundled up in their puffy jackets and gloves. Our mothers were not used to the ice and snow and did their best to protect us from hypothermia and frostbite, something that surely must accompany winter storms. Soon we found that the ice made for great fun when combined with our K-mart bought bikes. We took turns going to the top of hill at the end of the street and peddling back down while sliding left and right and eventually out of control. Sometimes we slid into bushes and sometimes we slid into mailboxes and parked cars. This was the 1980s and bike and playground safety for children was only a dream. At nine nothing really hurt and the harder you hit a mailbox the better.

On the second day of the storm the other kids had grown tired and retreated indoors. I was left to ride my bike alone. There really was no need to go to the hill since there was no audience to witness my stunts, so I rode near my house. That afternoon my mother came outside to build a snowman out of the little snow that was not yet solid ice, and was watching me play at the same time. Now I had an audience that deserved a show so I headed toward our yard with the intention of jumping a small, concave ditch beside the road. I hit the ditch, lost control, and then slid across the icy ground a few feet before coming to a complete stop. As I tried to recover and stand, a power line, heavy from ice accumulation, snapped from above and the hot wire went hunting for prey with a vengeance. The cable landed next to me and then started to jump all around in every direction. My mother screamed for me to come to her. I stood up and moved toward her and then fell again to the ground. It was good that I fell because the line hurled into air and the broken end landed where I would have been if I had not slipped. She then cried for me to go back toward the road, and I did but then the electrical snake bounced over my head and in front of me again. I made several futile attempts to evade the blue flame but it was all around me. Time slowed down and my young body considered the outcomes of each and every possible move, but each decision was met by the wall of energy. So I stood and marveled at the glow that became my world. There was no way to evade this, so I stood and faced my fate. Through the haze of electricity I could see my young mother crying and pleading for help. In other directions I noticed the neighbors starting to gather on their carports. My senses were peaked, but my body was relaxed. I was in complete control and I was helpless all at the same time. Then the spastic line stopped and settled on the ground in front of me. It sputtered a few dying breaths and then stopped moving. Now its only signs of life were a slight hum. The blue serpent was down for the count. I stepped backwards out of the ditch slipping as I made my escape.

My mother was incensed. She had almost witnessed the electrocution of her oldest little boy, and almost joined the list of those that outlive their children. Her son had been engulfed in a ring of fire, but had not been burned.

The neighbors were in awe of my survival, and my short struggle became the new gossip around town long after the ice melted. That same week many other stories surfaced of children killed and mutilated by falling power lines. One little girl lost her hands as a line fell toward her and she grabbed it in defense. Another child's heart stopped when he was hit by the surge from a line broken by the heavy weight of the ice. I felt I was lucky. Others felt I was blessed.

A few days later I was called to the house of Ms. Shoemaker, an old black woman that occasionally watched after me during the summer months. She approached me and with her cold, boney hands she clasped my face. I usually hated to be touched but this time her icy fingers didn't offend me.

"I dreamed of you. I dreamt how you faced off wid da devil and founds you way outa hell."

Her lips curled into an open mouth smile displaying her bare gums. "He he he. Don't chu worry bout school so much little one. You got bigger things ta do. Every body got a reason to be. He he he." Ms. Shoemaker had seen me struggle with school, and always told me I was smart even though I didn't believe her.

My mind then didn't think of destiny and reason, but later I often come back to the old wise woman's words. Do I have a purpose that made my life worth saving, or was it just pure luck? Did old Mrs. Shoemaker with a third grade education, that never left Georgia, really have wisdom and fore site beyond that of others? Did she see my future?