The Gray Parade

I shivered with excitement as I watched the elephants emerge from the train cars one by one, steam rising off their broad gray backs. They waited impatiently for all to be assembled, like so many children lining up for recess. Back and forth they swayed from foot to foot touching one another lightly with their trunks until the signal was given. Then it was time.

The ground shook beneath my feet as the living wall of massive beasts approached, lumbering three abreast. Men with ironclad goads jogged alongside. With ears flapping and trunks rhythmically swaying, the elephants obediently picked up the pace for the long march from the railroad yard through the heart of Asheville. Though I longed to get as close to them as I possibly could, I instinctively stepped farther back from the edge of the elevated concrete platform on which I was standing. If I lost my balance, I would be crushed in an instant. They were enormous creatures.

The air was filled with the unfamiliar sounds of elephants grumbling and occasionally squealing like trumpets cut off in mid-measure. Steam billowed in clouds from their mouths, only to be immediately swept away as they passed through the vapors into the bitter cold of a dull February morning. I closed my eyes and inhaled the barnyard smell of hay and manure, overlaid with the scent of elephant musk. They passed swiftly by at my feet, wearing dusty capes of dried dung, sprinkled with bright flecks and stems of pale yellow hay like so much glitter upon their bristling shoulders and ridged backbones. “How did they get all that up on their backs?” I wondered in amazement. As if in answer to my unspoken question, one extended the probing finger of its trunk into the debris on the ground and flung it up over its back. 

A handler spoke sharply in a language I did not understand. Gunther Gebel-Williams, the Lord of the Rings himself, was dressed in common work clothes and strode alongside the largest elephant of all! His hand rested companionably on its flank as they swiftly moved out of sight. Such a pace! A small elephant brought up the rear, holding on to its mother’s tail for dear life. Distracted, he looked around and briefly let go. Suddenly, she trumpeted in annoyance, causing the gray parade to falter for a moment.The youngster squeaked in surprise and quickly caught back up, clutching her rope-like tail in his trunk once again. 

I smiled as they vanished into the morning fog, headed from the river up the hill toward the bowels of the civic center. The Greatest Show on Earth had arrived and brought the plains of Africa to the Smoky Mountains.

Kay O'Hara

February 9, 2015

Tales of Sweet William: Love Looks Like a License Plate

There were two bonuses that year.

The first arrived at the regular time, though quite unexpectedly. 2001 had been a devastating year for many large construction firms. For Gallagher Electric, which was a smaller company, the first quarter was so light, Bill’s boss released him for six weeks to take the children and me on an extended camping trip throughout the Mid-Atlantic States. This was unprecedented freedom for a project manager working in commercial construction. It was a sign of lean economic times, so we had had no expectation of a bonus.

Yet the first bonus came anyway. It was a welcome additional check that retired a chunk of debt and gave us some breathing room. We were a family of eight by then, living humbly by choice on one income in less than twelve hundred square feet with no basement. Every dollar mattered, and we were thankful.

The second check arrived in defiance of the horrors that transpired on 9/11. Bill had brought another large job in on time and well under budget that fall. “You’ve made me a rich man again this year,” his boss said appreciatively. Bill gratefully folded up the additional check, tucked it into his back pocket and shook Jim Gallagher’s hand.

We thanked God for providing additional funds and set the money aside for a few weeks while we prayerfully considered the possibilities. After much discussion, we agreed to tithe off the top and divide the remainder in half. The first half would go to savings. The second half would be a down payment on a more reliable used vehicle. 

Since Bill endured a long daily commute in a beat up Chevvy S-10 truck with 400,000 miles and no air conditioner, I was more than ready to go truck shopping with him. He, on the other hand, never questioned our need for a larger, safer van for the kids and me. Bill was immovable in his decision to buy one.  

After much research, we located a used fifteen passenger van at a dealership up in Tennessee. It was a year-old fleet vehicle with forty thousand miles and a reasonable price tag. Bill dubbed the forest green van, “Ranger,” dropped a hitch and electronic brakes on it for the pop-up, and we were ready to go camping in style. All that was missing was a tag.

Bill swung by the DMV after work one afternoon to register the van and pick up the new license plate. He burst into the kitchen afterwards, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Kay, come outside and see the new tag I got for the van!” he exclaimed with a huge grin.

I dried my hands and joined him with a puzzled expression. We had bandied about the idea of a custom tag, but they aren’t a same-day item. You have to fill out a form and wait weeks for it to be delivered. What on earth?

 “Close your eyes!” Bill insisted with barely contained glee. He stood in my way until I complied, then became an escort for my blindness until we were in the driveway.

“Now look!”

I opened my eyes. All I saw was a standard Georgia wildlife tag with quail and some greenery on it, sporting the motto, “Give Wildlife a Chance.” While the green nicely matched the paint job on the van, and the motif would fit when we hauled our camper, it seemed pretty ordinary to me.

I turned to Bill, puzzled.

He grinned back. “Don’t you see?”

I shook my head.

He gently turned me around and pointed at the tag. “Look again. See what it says?”

I studied the tag…

4AQ61

…but was still clueless.

Bill’s excitement was uncontainable.

“4AQ61!” he exclaimed. “’For a queen, six kids, and one man who loves them!’” he chortled, swinging me around in in the driveway as the children looked on and giggled.

It was the perfect tag.

Four weeks later, Bill was gone, but his legacy lives on when we tell stories like this one. So, Happy Valentine's Week, my children. Your daddy sure did love you... and so do I.