WE'LL SEE YOU, JOE

Joseph Martin.

He stood six feet four inches tall, two-hundred and fifty pounds wide during his healthiest years; he grabbed old pickle-jars converted to glasses for drinking lemonade, with hands big enough to eclipse the moon when he raised his arms to stretch. And he smiled a country smile made of one silver tooth, memories of farm living and jokes in the lunch room at the General Motors plant. He was a joker with a wicked-hot temper, loud, slow drawl voice and a rifle in the bedroom closet for those bold enough to dare cross the line's he drew around his wife Hazel and their four daughters and eight grand-kids. And he knew Jesus. Him and his wife went to bed listening to gospel music and woke up to radio-evangelists shouting AMEN! But every now and then, when his wife went down the block he'd throw on some Duke Ellington, wink at you and tell you to take the A Train.

Ole' Joe Martin cooked fried southern cuisines in black skillets that shined satin slick with chicken and fish grease, and spit against thick tree barks on warm summer evenings, while he kicked the willie-bobo with neighbors old enough to remember "back when." Now, Joe Martin didn't suffer no fools, but held many people's worlds in helping hands; he was what the church folks used to call, "good people." Counting collection plate generosities by the Sunday, fixing engines or boilers or broken spirits the other six days of the week. Like a modern day John Henry, none of life's machinery seemed able to outwork him.

Joe Martin had a way about him; a twinkle in his green eyes that invited folks to stick around a while and a scowl in his voice that told those same folks to move away, quick, if they abused the privilege. He wasn't one for apologies. If he was wrong he'd admit it to you with a pat on the leg, a slap on the back or a joke. He was a man to get points across without the necessity of words he stopped learning about when his school days ended after seventh grade. Did anybody tell you that Joe Martin could get rid of colds and cuts with vinegar? He could make your hair grow back with farm birthed remedies that could only be passed down by those smart enough to learn outside the little red school houses of America.

He was a storyteller. Many could tell you about the bird-dog ghost that terrorized a car ride through the back roads of Martinsville, Virginia or the cheating girlfriend he hit in the back with a brick or the dark-skinned fella that spit on him for being too light or "hobo-ing" from train to train with his best friend, 'Weenie Slim' or the massive heart attack that retired him from his shift at the auto plant. There are other stories to be sure, but nobody could tell 'em like Joe, so they don't bother to try. They just remember and smile. Remember and smile...

Surely, you heard of Joe Martin. He went home on March 20, 2007; after seeing the strange fruit Billie Holliday sung about and the perfection of the automobile, regular airplane travel, the invention of the radio, television, computers with its internet, car phones, cell phones, a-bombs, world wars, assassinated presidents, resigning presidents, the first moon landing, the rise and murder of Martin Luther King, Jr. and then the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense; after seeing black people on television that weren't shuffling and mumbling; after seeing daughters marry, grand-children and great-grand-children born and a grandson act on the television 60 years after it's initial, colorless debut. All that seeing and the man still drank out of old pickle jars and sat on his porch with a long cane and a tiny black and white television set, watching the Yankees play double-headers, laughing that laugh and smiling that country smile while lightning bugs dotted the sunset with pins of fast light.

The other day he turned off the game, stood and waved and the neighbors poked their heads out of windowns and screen doors and waved back to him. There was nothing left for Joe to watch with the rest of us. He needed new things to see and from a better view at that. And nobody could blame him. Hazel was waiting on him and rumor had it she might even let him play some of his beloved Duke!

If you ain't heard of Joe Martin wait for sunset, look into the orange part of the light and you might catch a glimpse of him dancing. Yeah. Dancing.

We'll see you, Joe.