L'aura del Campo

Alvin and a lesson

SPRING: 15 Jalál (23 April)

Third Day of Ridvan

Do you really think your blog is not being read, not being googled? If you are in denial that what you write won't affect someone else please read this comment from my January 26th entry that I received today from nichole2893:

This is gonna seem really ironic.... My name is Nichole Marshall, Amber Antrum (now 13 yrs old as of Feb. 23rd) is mine and Alvin's daughter. Someone asked me if I'd ever googled my own name. I did... and also my Mom's and also Alvin's which brought me to this entry. I am emotionally awestruck right now, just to know that outside of myself and the Antrum family, that 13 years later, someone is still thinking of Alvin, Amber and his legacy. My username is nichole2893 (Feb. 8 1993, a date always on my mind as the day my life was changed forever) For the record Amber is a very pleasant girl and successful student. Her dad would be so proud. I occasionally write poetry when the mood strikes and will be a regular visitor of this site and your work. Thank you for keeping us in your heart. Nichole

In my entry "Parody and peonies"  I had written:

         She reminded me of Darlene Antrum. When her
         son Alvin was stabbed to death, Darlene was
         able to set aside all bitterness and was able
         to forgive. I was just devastated. Felt I
         could've done more for Alvin. He was 18. I
         believe he would've been 30 last year. His
         child must be around 12 then. Died in
         February? Odd how the years make the memories
         fuzzy.

I could add now

that Darlene and I shared a house when Alvin was about 11. That young Alvin was a nice but mischievous boy. That Darlene loved him deeply, even arranging to have him court supervised to not lose him to the streets. He had finally turned his life around and was going to be a young father (I remember something about art ... drawing perhaps?). But on February 8th while he was cooking some fried chicken this guy yelled up to him to come down. Since he was also hardheaded, he didn't listen to his family's advice not to go down. He was stabbed in the chest and died shortly thereafter. I was at Ruth West's house when we received the news that evening. Which was better than hearing it for the first time on the 11 o'clock news that night.

I remember the funeral at Brown's funeral home. The internment in St. Matthew's along the back fence. I remember singing with Darlene at the gravesite.

Someone in Alvin's family met with the other family involved and I remember Darlene's choice to forgive. I forget the details of what happened to the other guy.

What bothered me the most at the time was the feeling that I could've or should've been more supportive when Alvin was growing up. He grew up in a home of women, but I felt that I was not the man to help him. I know that at least one other man did try.

Nichole was very pregnant at the time with Alvin's child. As Nichole writes, Amber was born just 15 days later. Such tragedy. Darlene had just buried her mother that January (they were very close) and here she was burying her 18 year old son and welcoming his daughter into the world.

Darlene was great, calm as usually, but I remember being upset. I even blew up at work. My co-workers were insensitive blokes that lived fairly priviledged lives and looked down on inner city folk (most all lived in the suburbs), especially if they were black, hispanic or other. I am no longer there; but, they are ... and still looking down their ever-loving noses at people less fortunate or merely different than themselves.

Darlene now lives in Columbia, South Carolina. And that is a reason for a bigsmile!

Weather where I am: 74º and very pleasant.

Weather where Darlene is: 85º and sunny.

Today, I met Hubbard Collinsworth as usual for our Sunday morning talk at Henry's. We are both frustrated. Hub is not happy that an individual who sits on a board of directors doesn't know the policies of that organization.

I am tired of pettiness. This town will focus on making life miserable for a select few with no sense of what is most important, without any concern for over-reaching consequences. Color me stupid, but I'm tired of being the only one in the room who isn't a black-white earth-is-flat thinker. This is a college town, you'd think there would be brighter people than me around. I'm beginning to wonder.

Freshly sketched 4/22:

When the gates open

Five minutes
till the gates of hell will open.
Was purgatory worth the wait?
The pearls of heaven fill the skies,
fall like hail, like promised lies.

All flesh rots between these toes,
these gasps of breath, these coughs
that spread like fire. Four

minutes more,
the final rush through door:
to grab a mat,
to guard a spot,
to claim our lot.

We huddle in this sardine can
with other dying fish,
this hellish hole,
no devil'd wish. [163.71]

Sometimes I'm able to help someone. My phone is an example. Michelle was able to use it last night. Jeff called his dad and a friend today. On weekends, it doesn't cost. It's nice to be of some service.

SENSED

Smell of incense; warmth; seafood salad; chocolate milk; bricks stamped: Purington and Barr; yellow rose bush; fresh cut stumps; newly planted trees; new ginkgo trees; a game of field crumpets.

Interesting note: went to the internet and found out that Purington and Barr are names of antique street bricks!