Mr. Maney
It was one of those blissful south Mississippi summer nights in 1970. I was tooling into Wiggins on my new motorcycle, heading over to the Frosty Mug to see who was hanging out there. Just past the 3-way stop where Clubhouse Drive intersects with Pine Street, I noticed the lights of a car on my tail. Since I wasn't going very fast, I figured that whoever it was needed to get around me. I sped up a bit and made a quick turn onto a side street. That was a mistake, one of several I would make in short order, a series of small decisions that could have ended very differently. But let’s back up a bit.
In 1963, the Maneys, a family of five, moved into the old Hatten house halfway down our sandy gravel lane. I was 9, and I can’t say I was too happy about someone else sharing our little piece of Big Level heaven.
Mr. Maney (rhymes with Mr. Haney of the Green Acres TV show) was a career military man. A sergeant in the Air Force, he was gruff and boisterous and full of bluster. And I was scared of him.
He and his wife, Alene, would often walk up to our house after supper for a brief visit and a bit of conversation. That was a commonplace occurrence in those days. I can see Mr. Maney now, sitting with Dad on our front porch sharing a cup of coffee and telling tales of Okinawa, Korea, and his stint in Vietnam. He was never without a story, and once he was settled in one of our chairs and started rocking, they would pour forth. To my adolescent ears, they sounded wild and fantastic, full of adventure. Given all the places he had been and all the people he met, I don't imagine he had to exaggerate much at all. However, I knew Dad had some good stories too, and I loved hearing them, especially when they involved my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and the olden days. But I knew that when Mr. Maney got cranked up, I wasn't going to hear any of those.
In 1965 he left for another tour in Vietnam. After he returned a year later, he retired from the military. And then he and Alene divorced. Even at my preteen age, I could see that coming. Alene and the kids stayed in their place on our road. He moved to town and joined the Wiggins police force. I didn't see him after that—not until that one night in the summer of 1970.
I was sixteen then and had a motorcycle and a part-time job. And since school was out, I also had a good bit of free time, a lot of which was spent bike riding, swimming at the lake, dating my steady girlfriend, and hanging in town with my friends. That was generally one of the most carefree times of my life.
My second motorcycle, a 1970 Honda CB175 that I purchased at the beginning of that summer.
One of those nights found me rolling through that 3-way stop. A block later, that car was again behind me. Thinking that maybe some of my running buddies had seen me coming into town and were joshing with me, I made another quick turn and gunned it. Mistake on top of mistake.
The car turned with me. It was only then that I became aware of the siren and the flashing blue light. My heart almost stopped. I promptly pulled over and turned to face the music.
I was struggling to get my helmet off when I realized it was Mr. Maney. This hopping-mad city police officer was doing a darn good impression of Sgt. Carter dressing down Gomer Pyle. He was shouting up a blue streak, wanting to know why I was trying to outrun him. I was stammering, trying to explain myself, and he wasn’t buying any of it. I thought he was about to put me in cuffs and haul me in. But when I finally got the helmet off and the car’s headlights hit my face, his mouth closed.
He stood there momentarily speechless, as if he was completely confounded.
“Is that you, Russell?” he asked.
Confirming his recognition of me, he shook his head and changed his tone.
No, he wasn’t going to give me a ticket. However, he did lecture me sternly for a minute or two, recounting each of my infractions, starting with my rolling stop back at that 3-way stop. I was about one-foot tall when he finished.
His bluster gone, and as if something had caught in his throat, he said, "You better slow that sickle down. I don't want to have to call your mama in the middle of the night and tell her that I found you spread out in pieces in a ditch."
Those words still ring in my ears. I certainly didn't want that, either.
I’ve never forgotten what he said. At sixteen, it sounded like just another hard warning from a hard man, but years later I understood those words differently. That’s when I learned that Mr. Maney had been on duty the day my daddy had his accident—the one that took his life.
I don’t know all the details of that wreck, but somewhere in that chain of events—the sirens, the accident scene, the ambulance, maybe even the long drive out to our place—Mr. Maney was there. I’ve often wondered what he saw and what he carried away from it.
And I’ve wondered, too, what went through his mind that night when he chased me down on that motorcycle, watching me make one bad decision after another.
I can still see him standing there in the headlights, the anger draining out of him when he recognized me. Maybe he wasn’t just angry. Maybe he was remembering.
He let me go that night.
But he made sure I understood.
Paramount Cemetery, Big Level Community, Stone Co., Miss.
Woodlawn Cemetery, Wiggins, Stone Co., Miss.
A Word to Ponder
Tool around; tooling (idiom): To drive around in one's vehicle aimlessly or idly, doing nothing in particular, with no purpose, direction, or end point in mind.
thefreedictionary.com
Song of the Day
“Small Town” by John Mellencamp (Scarecrow, 1985)