Dinner on the Grounds Version 2.0 (Blogophilia 25.15)

 

He'd always been spiritual, constantly stopping to reflect on his life and where he was going. Twenty years in L.A. had taught him a couple of things. Controlling all the events in your life just wasn't possible and misery couldn't be wished away. It crept up when he least expected it to. The business had often made him feel alone and afraid. Every project teetered on the edge of failing and there was little he could do about it. There was no family to support or to support him and he accepted that. But he plugged on.

He was back in the mountains he visited so often in his youth, working as a script consultant for a project. The funding had been only approved in the last week and the Production team needed someone with experience in the area to reconcile plot inconsistencies. The director put him up in a house on Lake Chatuge not a quarter mile down the road from the church. On a whim, he decided to see it. 

Memories of Homecomings past rushed forth. Stilted greetings, Praise the Lord, and too much food, all to draw the backsliders to the flock. Mom would give him a pill to keep him from getting sick on the road home to Atlanta before they left. But, the medicine never worked. Mountain twists caused cold sweat to issue out from the edges of his crew cut. He moved side to side with each twist until the puke was harder than a shaken Coke can, leaving two cussing parents holding paper sacks and wet paper towels.

That was a long time ago.  After Mom died, Dad didn't want to have anything to do with the church, mountains, or in-laws. He was happy just to drink his life away and it didn't take long.

Crying, he left Georgia and the South after his memorial without even going back to his apartment. No more drunk misery, pining for a past that didn't exist. Skipping from Chicago to New York and then finally to Los Angeles, he managed to do well in the entertainment business.  He could be in twenty movies and he would never be an actor the paparazzi cared about, but the bills stayed paid. 

Driving over the mountain, his stomach was settled. No cold sweat, the road had the worst curves softened. The Devine Assembly of the Holy Lord hadn't changed much, perched over Highway 288 like a Monopoly piece. The white picket fence shone with its annual paint job. The only difference he could see was the banner out front proclaiming "Willkommen, Bienvenue, and Welcome". A concession to the wealthy "cabin" owners that dotted the hills. If it had been accurate, "Bienvenidos" would have been included. It was proof that some things hadn't changed. 

Portable gazebos donated by the local funeral home dotted the lawn, protecting the food underneath.  Without even realizing it, he made the turn up the steep slope into the parking lot. Trays of potato salad and sliced ham sat next to the yeast rolls. Green beans that were picked this morning waited their turn to be eaten. The ice cream station was at the far end of the row next to the cobblers. 

A sea of permed white curls and stooped shoulders turned in unison to look at him as he got out of the car. A flicker of recognition came to a set of eyes.

"Ain't you Agnes Hutson's boy?" 

"I'm her Grandson, Ma'am," He said smiling."Teeny was my Mom."

"Oh, yeah. That wild one did have a passel of kids. Y'all get in here and eat." The old lady then turned to the crowd. Hey, Y'all. We got a Prodigal here  Let's give him a proper homecoming."

"All the Glory to God, Sister Hazel." The Pastor said, handing him a plate of food. "Welcome home, Son."

The other event could wait. He took the food and prayed with Congregation for the acceptance. He really was home.