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Save Me a Place in Heaven

Jerry Deriso was born in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but moved to the South as quick as he could. He was raised in Americus, Georgia, in the 1950s; he graduated from Americus High School, attended Georgia Southwestern College, and is a graduate of Georgia Tech.

His father’s death prompted him to preserve his family memories for his descendents, but the writing quickly grew into a life essay on farm life, Southern cooking, dogs, small-town life in the 1950s, and the demise of our current culture.

The book is written in the author’s voice and evokes feelings of Sams, Grizzard, and Rooney. He believes our culture is being slowly destroyed from within by small dogs, cats, bad barbecue, kudzu, fat-free ice cream, cell phones, e-mail, the Internet, childproof lids, hard plastic security packaging, IPods, video players in automobiles, kids not being raised right, rudeness, fast food, moms who don’t cook, high school graduates who can’t read, long-winded preachers, the disappearance of real Southern cooking, and the popularity of instant grits, Diet Pepsi, and unsweetened tea.

His family’s history is a goldmine of great food, quirky characters, outlandish actions, and bodacious behavior; he has mined it shamelessly and offers no apologies.

SAVE ME A PLACE - PREFACE

It is a hot midsummer day in 1953, a little after three o’clock in the afternoon, on the edge of the Shady Road woods.  I am standing atop a strand of very sharp barbed wire that is strung atop a four foot-high hog-wire fence put there by the owner to keep us out of these very woods. Four of my neighborhood cronies and I have labored long and hard for most of the day, clearing Kudzu, limbs, brush, and briars to create a four foot square clearing located across the entire expanse of the woods.  We have also managed to tie a fifty foot piece of rope to a limb high up in a large pine tree in the middle of the woods.

I am holding the loose end of that rope. For years, our gang has watched Tarzan on Saturday afternoons at the picture show travel effortlessly through the jungle by swinging from muscadine vine to muscadine vine.  We have decided that if Tarzan can do it then we can do it too, although not on quite as grand a scale.  There are no lions or tigers waiting to tear us to shreds if we fall, but the possibility of getting bit by a disgruntled copperhead or butted by one of the Billy-goats that hang out in the woods is real enough. 

I have been picked to make the inaugural swing through the woods, hopefully landing just past the blackberry thicket that is located close to the clearing where the swing should end.  (I’m not sure if my selection to make this epic flight is a function of my courage or my total lack of common sense).  Tarzan swings through the jungle half-nekkid, wearing nothing but a lion-skin bathing suit with a flap in the front and back; I am not that brave, although I may very well be that stupid.  I am attired in black high-top Keds tennis shoes, Levi’s blue jeans with the copper-riveted pockets and reinforced knees, one of my father’s long sleeve khaki shirts, and a nylon billed cap with tie-down fleece-lined ear flaps.  I am taking no chances this day, no matter how hot it is.

I anticipate the feeling of the wind rushing past my face as I swing all the way across the woods going sixty miles an hour, letting go of the rope at just the right time, and coming to a spectacular two-point landing just on the other side of the blackberry thicket, demonstrating my total disdain for danger or injury.  I can already hear the cheers and acclamations for my bravery and derring-do ringing in my ears.  My fame and reputation for feckless and dangerous behavior will become a thing of legend, talked about around campfires for years. 

Just before I launch myself into space I look at my best friend, wink, and say, “Look out Tarzan, here I come.” 

He replies laconically, “Yeah, right.  Just make sure you save me a place in heaven”

I am stunned to hear him say such a thing.  It means that he thinks I am about to do something that is so stupid that it could only be described by using that rare phrase.  He may have wished me well, but he also was sure that I would not live through the experience and the next time he saw me would be in heaven.  In other words, my best friend really thinks I am stupid.  It occurs to me he is more than likely right. 

I now find myself caught on the horns of a giant dilemma.   I can’t very well back down at this point, although my confidence had gone from tempered steel to lukewarm Jell-O.  “Well, hell,” I think, “I ain’t gonna chicken-out now.”  I let out a loud Rebel yell, bend my knees and spring into the air, hoping to come back down on the strand of barbed wire on my feet and use it as a catapult to throw me high into the air and on my way, sort of like using a trampoline.  Oh, I come back down on the barbed wire alright; the only problem is my left foot slips and I land astride the barbed wire, making a direct hit on one of the razor-sharp barbs with a very sensitive part of my anatomy.  This is definitely not in the plan. I black-out for a couple of seconds and when I come to I am still straddling the fence and holding on to the top strand of barbed wire with both hands, much like the posture for riding on the back of a very skinny mule.  I think for an instant that I have indeed been killed, and since there is no pain and suffering in heaven, and I am damned sure feeling a lot of pain and suffering, I must have been ended up in hell.  I sadly think that I will never see my best friend again, especially not in heaven; I wonder if he will be sad or disappointed.  I also wonder if anybody will come to my funeral. 

I somehow manage to keep from screaming or crying and make just a small “whoof” sound.  I gradually lean to one side and slide off the barbed wire, with my knees never coming apart.  The gang silently helps me to my feet, exhibiting great reverence for the sacrifice I had just made, although it is apparent that they are all right on the verge of breaking into huge guffaws of laughter.  I manage to hobble home with their help, deciding along the way that Tarzan can kiss my foot.  I eventually healed and, screwing up my courage, returned to the scene of the crime to swing across those woods, which I did with great style and a complete disregard for danger.  You can also bet your ass that I never again tried to use that sorry, no-good, privates-gouging barbed-wire fence as a launching pad for my Tarzan-like swing.

There was a time later when the same best friend gave me the same dire prediction when  I informed him I was going to break up with my current girlfriend (who was, unfortunately, very hot-tempered) a week before Christmas so I wouldn’t have to buy her a present.  He looked at me like I had taken leave of all of my senses and said, “You dumb-ass.  Well, good luck with that but remember to save me a place in heaven when you get there, because she is fixing to kill your sorry butt.”  I didn’t think all that profanity was necessary, but he actually had no idea how close he was to prophesying what actually came to pass. 

I managed to survive her deluge of tears, hysterical screaming and foot stamping, threats of violence, and R-rated cussing.  Actually, I thought she took the news quite well, though I could see no good reason for her to throw what was to have been my Christmas present, a beautiful wool sweater, out into her back yard, where her father’s German Shepard immediately ripped it to shreds.  I didn’t even get to keep the box it was wrapped in.  Also, the act of her throwing an unopened six ounce glass bottle of cold CoCola at me, barely missing my head, bordered on being right tacky.  Ah, the price youth pays for its selfish parsimony.  I decided right then and there that the next time I decided to do something so churlish I would substitute good sense for chivalry and just send the girl a note rather than telling her in person, avoiding the risk of losing life, limb, and the pursuit of happiness.