Coosa County sunsets
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Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich
Morgan arrived at the little lake cabin around lunchtime. Her sorority sister Grace was driving the car. The car wheeled into the gravel driveway. When Morgan crawled out of the passenger seat, we all rushed her and embraced.
Everyone was laughing and carrying on, hugging necks and back-slapping. Dogs were turning circles and barking with glee. And during all this social excitement, someone may or may not have accidentally peed in the kitchen.
Now, I won’t say WHO in my family circle urinated directly on the kitchen floor. But I will say that I am almost certain – at least in this particular instance – that it wasn’t me.
Next, Grace and I carried Morgan’s bags inside, while my wife gave Morgan the dime tour of the antiquated lake abode.
Jamie showed Morgan where the wooden floorboards warp and where, precisely, she should watch her step. She showed her the vintage bathroom, with a toilet that predates the Truman era and a rust-covered bathtub with flaking paint, and a tiny lizard who lives in the overflow drain whom we have named Albert. We showed Morgan exactly which hazardous ungrounded electrical sockets to avoid, and made certain everyone understood the finer points of electrical injuries and basic CPR.
Then, while everyone got settled in, my wife cleaned up the pee in the kitchen.
“I’d like to know WHO peed in my kitchen,” she said in an ominous voice, glaring at me and our three dogs.
“I would like to know, as well,” I said.
But my wife was now glaring solely at me.
“What are you looking at me for?” I asked.
Glare.
So I went onto the porch and hung out with Grace and Morgan. The porch overlooks Lake Martin and is the perfect place to spend a serene afternoon. Morgan was sitting on the porch swing, gazing out at the water.
Morgan Love is 20 years old and my dear friend. We’ve been compadres for years. I first met Morgan when she was a teenager. I was on a writing assignment, doing an article about service dogs in Alabama. One of my interviews of the day was Morgan and her service dog, Clarabelle.
I’ll never forget meeting Morgan for the first time. Her shock of red hair is the first thing you notice. There are only a few in the world with hair this particular shade of fire. Then you notice her viral smile. Morgan’s smile sort of infects the whole room, one person at a time. If you aren’t smiling within a few moments after meeting Morgan, you’re not living right.
And it is only then, after the smile, after the hair, that you notice Morgan’s slight limp. You soon realize that she is paralyzed on the left side of her body.
Then you notice her backpack, which she wears all day, every hour, because it contains her TPN feeding-tube apparatus, which is a form of life support.
Then, after talking to her for a moment, you notice the blindness in her eyes. And then you learn that she has practically grown up in a hospital bed. In some ways, Morgan’s past few years have mostly been lived in sterilized medical rooms, lying in a hospital bed, connected to tubes and wires.
And yet she is the happiest person I know. Not “one of the happiest people I know.” But the actual, bona fide, happiest person I have ever met. She walks around this world, health concerns notwithstanding, with the sunny disposition of a recent lottery winner.
So anyway, Grace and Morgan and I played Clue on the porch while my wife cleaned up pee. I haven’t played Clue in many years and needed Grace to give me a refresher course. Grace is a medical student who is studying to be a nurse and then become a doctor. She is very methodical and serious when it comes to explaining board-game rules. Do not interrupt her, or you will need resuscitation.
The game was fun. Morgan was Colonel Mustard. Grace was Miss Peacock. I was the maid, Miss White. As it turned out, Miss Peacock committed the atrocity. With the candlestick holder. In the kitchen – of all places. You have to worry about this world sometimes.
Then, it was time for supper. The fireflies made dappled light designs in the evening air. We ate on the screened porch among the myriad of glowing yellow dots. We all bowed heads as Morgan said the blessing. Her prayer was short and spartanly simple.
“Thank you, God, for friends. Thank you, God, for food. Thank you, God, for life.”
This was followed by a beat of silence.
The rest of us ate hot dogs while Morgan painstakingly ate tater tots. My heart swelled with pride after each tot she ate. For I can still remember when doctors told her she’d never eat solid food again.
And for years, she didn’t. Nothing passed Morgan’s lips. Her teeth ached from lack of chewing. Her paralyzed intestines processed no solid matter. Her life was devoid of all taste and savor.
For years, Morgan would simply watch from afar as the rest of us shoveled food into our greedy little mouths, enjoying the most basic pleasure of our human existence.
But Morgan refused to accept the doctors’ bleak outlook. Although her intestines are still paralyzed, she has forced herself to learn to eat food again. She started small, with lone bites of mashed potatoes. Then, she worked her way up to waffles and tater tots and pretzels. Now she can eat many normal foods.
As I watched her eat, I found that my cheek muscles were cramping and there was a strange, warm fluid running down the side of my face.
“People do not know what a gift it is to eat,” said Morgan.
Supper ended. A good time was had by all. And as I was clearing dishes from the table, once again – brace yourself – someone who was not me peed in the kitchen.
My wife was the one who found the bodily fluid. She stared at the golden puddle with an unmoving face. I could feel the air vibrating with Jamie’s silent but unbridled wrath.
“There is pee in my kitchen,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I see it.”
“Someone peed in my kitchen.”
“Yes,” I pointed out.
She just looked at me. “Take these dogs outside.” She said this in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible to the naked ear.
So, I took the dogs outside and gave them a stern talking-to. And by “stern,” I mean that my serious lecture involved doggy treats and complimentary rawhide chews.
Then, I asked if Morgan wanted to drive the pontoon boat.
“Me?” she said. “You want a blind epileptic girl driving your boat at night?”
“I can’t think of a better way to go,” said I.
So, Grace and I piled into the pontoon while Morgan piloted the watercraft across the mirrored lake at sundown.
The sky was on fire with pinks and purples and reds. The cicadas and crickets were singing the day’s finale chorus. And a flawless sun descended beneath Coosa County clouds.
Morgan kept her non-paralyzed hand on the wheel, periodically adjusting the throttle, silently staring into the beauty surrounding us. There was no need to talk. No need for words. Because all of nature was doing enough talking and singing for us all. All creation was crying out to the heavens in one unified voice, saying exactly the same thing, all at once:
Thank you, God, for friends. Thank you, God, for food. Thank you, God, for life.
