The Medlins

Four boys walked barefoot down a damp sun-warmed red clay path from their house to the river.  Each had a cane pole in his hand, fishing line securely tied to the end, hooks and sinkers swinging from side to side with each step they took.  It was early morning, but not too early.  Charles was up at dawn to milk the cows and it was he who woke his brothers and urged them toward the well-worn byway to their favorite fishing hole. They spoke in thick Southern drawl, laughed about the usual things in which boys find hilarity.  The brothers were friends, thick as thieves but more honest than most young lads their ages.  Their mother trusted them to behave themselves, to respect their elders and show respect even for what belonged to others.  Their father, a small sinewy man who stayed awake all night in a guard shack at the Singer plant, had once been a harsher man.  Their younger days acquainted them with the consequences of addiction, the devastation of loss and its power to transform.  Their father had not touched alcohol since the death of their little sister, three years ago.

As a family, they were what all families want to be.  They were loyal, honest, talented.  Each member had a space to fill and each filled his or her space completely.  They were guitar pickers, gardeners, fishermen, singers.  They were faithful to God and to one another, their love of music strung them together in a way that lent harmony to the life they made together.

About half-way down that well-worn red clay pathway between their house and the river stood an old abandoned house.  It had once been inhabited by a husband and wife, an elderly couple whose years of child-rearing and farming had long since passed.  The Curtis boys passed it by without a second thought, not to honor or respect it in any way, but because being malicious was the farthest thing from their minds.  They walked the path with a singular goal: To see who would catch the biggest catfish.

Along the way they met up with the Medlin brothers.  Three adopted boys who lived in a house on the other end of that worn pathway, with a father who never quite got a handle on them.  They were known for causing trouble, stealing cars and vandalising property.  For a few minutes the seven boys mingled, talked about fishing, and then went their separate ways.

At the end of the day, fish caught, boys tuckered out, they headed back home dangling their catch on a stringer, one boy carrying all the cane poles.  Charles was the tallest, was always the stoutest of the boys, so he carried the fish and walked a good stride ahead of the other boys.  In all aspects it seemed a pretty ordinary summer day for a bunch of poor farmer's boys, but in days to follow, that day would become an indelible memory for all of them, especially for Charles.

It all started with a phone call from someone else's son; the son of the elderly couple who used to occupy the farm house that sat between the Curtis's and the Medlin's on that trail.  The Curtis boys had been spotted that morning, making their way to the river and someone, that very day, had thrown rocks through the windows of the old house, shattering every single one of them.  Chris Curtis listened as the act of vandalism was described, anger and embarrassment rose up inside him.  He found it hard to believe his boys would have committed such an offense but they were seen near the house, and the house was left windowless shortly thereafter.  All four boys were therefore summonsed to the woodshed and whipped accordingly for their alleged crime.  They all protested, "We didn't do it!" they told him, but their father wouldn't hear them.  It had to be them, he thought, and he couldn't let them get away with such a deed.

Meanwhile the Medlin boys kept quiet.  They let the Curtis kids take all the blame, let them work to pay for all the broken windows and continued on with their wicked ways.

Twenty years later, Chris Curtis spotted a hitchhiker along a back road in Pickens.  He pulled over and let Tate Medlin climb in the passenger side of his Chevrolet.  They exchanged greetings, talked about the weather, then fell quiet along the way.  As Chris drove along he noticed that Tate was giggling to himself.  "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about that time me and my brothers broke the windows out in that old house and you whipped your boys for it.."  At that he gave a big guffaw, and my grandpa's foot quickly found the brake.

He stopped the car.  "Get out of my car!" He demanded.

Tate was dumbfounded.

"Why?" He asked.

"You caused me to whip my boys for something they didn't do.  I'm not taking you anywhere, you can walk, you sorry jackass."

Tate, shaking his head and still chuckling to himself, opened the car door and got out.  He stood frozen as Chris drove away, leaving him in the dust.

It nagged at him, the memory of the day he whipped his sons behind the shed as they claimed their innocence.  He should have listened to them.  He was wrong to have punished them.

Before he went home he drove to Charles' house and found him working on a lawnmower outside.  He told my dad how he'd picked up Tate Medlin, how the truth had been revealed and how sorry he was for punishing his sons for a crime they didn't commit.  Of course, so many years later it was water under the bridge, but Chris knew it was never too late to try to set things right.

His humility and honesty won him the unconditional respect of his sons.  It won him a legacy that even his grandchildren admire, though some of us never knew him.

My father told me this story over and over again during the last few years of his life.  It stood out in his mind as a pivotal point in his life--a part of his life that shaped him into who he became.

We start down our well-worn paths every day, always thinking we know where we are going and what results we will acquire, but life throws us curveballs sometimes.  Life isn't fair.  We take on the transgressions of others, watch those who should get punished go scott free.  We often don't get the apologies we feel we deserve, and we fail to give apologies we owe.

The truth is, no matter how clear you've made your pathway, you'll still encounter some Medlins along the way.  My father and his brothers never lost their respect or confidence in their father's judgment, even though they knew he was wrong.  They were hurt, more by his lack of belief in them than by the whippings they received, but their love and respect for him won out in the end.  They knew their father was not composed merely of his mistakes, no more than the songs they played together on the front porch on Saturday nights were composed of flat chords or broken guitar strings. They learned a hard lesson--that Medlins happen, it's how you carry on after them that counts.

My dad got an apology he never even expected, it was almost like a reward for his long-suffering confidence in his father's judgment.  We don't all get the apologies we'd love to hear, but we do all get the opportunity to forgive.  Forgiveness is freedom, it is growth and strength.  It allows us to find new paths to wear clear of debris and softens the clay under our bare feet, just enough to keep us from growing weary of the journey.

Whatever lies at the end of your trail, never stop seeking it.  Don't let the Medlins get you off track.  Sooner or later, they'll be left standing in the dust watching you drive away in your Chevrolet, wondering where they went wrong.