Country Ham
John Quincy MacPherson
& Mikeal C. Parsons
Country Ham
Copyright © 2017 John Quincy MacPherson & Mikeal C. Parsons. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1864-2
hardcover isbn: 978-1-4982-4439-8
ebook isbn: 978-1-4982-4438-1
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 09/17/15
For all those in whom the MacPherson blood runs, and for all those MacPhersons yet to come . . . .
Chapter 1
First, Ham had to pick up his tux—black trousers with a lime green jacket with long tails to match Nora’s dress. Since it was 1976, almost everything and everybody would be decked out in patriotic red, white, and blue. But Nora decided to go with a lime green dress, because it went well with her features. So, of course, Ham would have a matching jacket. After the tux, Ham had to swing by Snow’s Florist to pick up Nora’s corsage. Then back home to wash the Studebaker.
He opened the door to JoAnna’s Boutique. A little bell over the door rang, announcing his arrival. Mrs. Joanna Weaver came from the back to the counter.
“Hi, Miss Joanna. I came to get my tux,” Ham said.
“Hello, Ham. Just a minute.” Mrs. Weaver went to the back and emerged a moment later with a plastic covered hanger. “All paid for, I see,” she said, as she lifted up the plastic cover. “Pink jacket and matching cummerbund and tie. That right?”
“No ma’am. It’s supposed to be a lime green jacket with matching cummerbund and tie,” Ham replied.
“Hmmm, well, the ticket order says, ‘pink.’” She held the paper out for Ham to examine. “Do you remember who helped you?”
“Some young woman I never seen before.”
“That might have been Julie. We have a lot of temp help during this time of year. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it now, Ham. Winter Waltz is tonight. I’ll give a 10 percent credit toward your next purchase, but you really should have come in earlier in the week to make sure the order was right.”
“Yes ma’am. My mama said the same thing ‘bout coming in early. All right, then, thank you Miss Joanna.” Ham took the hanger and left the shop. The little bell announced his departure.
Things went better at the florist. Nora’s corsage was ready, and it was just what Ham (or more accurately, his mother Nina) had ordered. By the time he stopped for lunch at Arby’s (he loved their roast beef sandwiches) and got home, it was nearly two o’clock. He went in to the house and took a catnap. A little after three o’clock, Ham pulled his 1948 Studebaker closer to the garden hose to start washing it, despite the slight chill in the air.
After fifteen minutes or so, he looked up and saw a strange sight coming down the driveway. A gray and black Pontiac hearse with black tinted windows was rolling slowly toward the house. Ham watched, puzzled. What was a hearse doing here?
As the hearse came to a full stop, the driver turned the flashers on and sat on the horn. Then Uncle Carl opened the door and got out. In his early forties, Carl Calloway Brookshire was tall and thin, and he had a black goatee and ponytail to complement his balding head. He had on his trademark white T-shirt and bib overalls.
“How do you like your ride, Ham?” Carl asked.
“What the hell is that thing, Uncle Carl?”
“Why, it’s a hearse, of course. I call it Mr. Ed.” Then Carl began to sing. “A hearse is a hearse of course, of course, and no one can talk to a hearse, of course, that is of course unless the hearse is the famous Mr. Ed.”
“Uncle Carl, have you been drinkin’?”
“Ham, what kind of question is that? It’s the weekend and I’m your Uncle Carl. Of course, I’ve been drinkin’.”
“I can’t take Nora to the Winter Waltz in that thing!” Ham shouted.
“Why not?” Carl asked. “It’s the same length as a regular limousine. I checked myself. Besides, Nora is goin’ to love it!” Carl winked.
“It’s for carryin’ corpses, not dates.” Ham cried.
“In my experience, Ham, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” Carl quipped. “Ham, this is a real classic. It’s a 1954 Pontiac Barnette two-door hearse, for Christ’s sake. And did you know that there are Hearse Clubs where owners drive in parades just like they do classic antique cars?”
Ham ignored those comments. “Where in tarnation did you get this?”
“From a colored funeral home.” Carl said. “It was a real bargain, too. Plus, there haven’t been any corpses in the hearse in over two months. Business was bad, which is why, I reckon, they sold it.”
“What in God’s name made you decide to buy a hearse, Uncle Carl?”
“Why I’ve always wanted a hearse, Ham.”
“I never knew that. Why?”
“Well, don’t you know people are dyin’ all over the place to get into a hearse?” Carl laughed at his own joke until he started coughing. He reached inside his overalls and retrieved an inhaler. He inhaled the medicine, waited a moment until his lungs cleared, and then said, “Seriously, Ham, I’ve always liked the look of a hearse, and when this one came available, I jumped on it. Ridin’ in a parade next weekend. But you get the honor of bein’ the first one to take it out in public.”
“What happened to the limo you were supposed to get?”
“Oh, my buddy Jimmy knew a fella with a limo, but that deal kinda fell through. I should’ve known not to trust Jimmy.”
Yeah, thought Ham, and I should have known not to trust you.
Carl changed the subject. “Ham, why are washin’ your car in this cold?”
“Because I figured this would happen.”
“What would happen?”
“You wouldn’t come through with the limo, Uncle Carl, that’s what! I’ll just take the Studebaker. She’s all cleaned up now.”
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