The Fall of The Old South

There I lay, on my deathbed, counting down the minutes until I pass away and explore the afterlife. I had an IV sticking out of my arm, looking at an old scrapbook with old photographs serving as records and documents of my life. I looked back through the years, searching for a place I had known, which was no longer there. And then there was my nurse adjusting my bed sheets and pulling the blanket over my failing body. I thought to myself ‘’Enough already! Just let me die!’‘

My nurse said ‘’ your soup will be ready in an hour.’‘

‘’What good will it do? I’ll be dying not long after you give me the damn soup!’‘ I told her.

‘’I’m just trying to make you comfortable.’‘ she said. ‘’You should rest now.’‘

I just laid there as tiny bits of life continued to drain out of me. Each and every second I stayed alive in this bed was sheer pain and I couldn’t wait to die. Then I started looking at the scrapbook, reflecting on my life. I’m one of the last of the southern aristocrats, a legacy which is about to die with me. As I looked at an old photograph, I flashed back to beginning of the Southern Renaissance which started with a cultural arts festival.

There was a big band playing ‘’When The Saints Go Marching In’‘ as my parents, brothers and sisters, and myself stood there in awe. Artists were also painting portraits and sculptors and craftsmen were creating real life objects out of clay and wood. Many great southern authors were also there. All of a sudden, I spotted William Faulkner, I was a great admirer of his books so I went over as he was signing books.

I asked him ‘’I’m a great admirer of your books, what inspires you to write?’‘

‘’Real life, the environment surrounding me, and the people I meet.’‘ he said.

‘’What other kinds of books would you recommend to a reader?’‘ I asked ‘’And what advice would you give a young writer?’‘

He replied. ‘’Well, I wouldn’t advise him to read Hemingway for starters.’‘

‘’Why not?’‘ I asked.

‘’He always uses short sentences, his stories are always these upbeat tales of his characters traveling around the world.’‘ He started. ‘’I always experiment with stream of consciousness, multiple points of view, and shifting back and forth between different time periods.’‘

It was from this moment I realized Hemingway’s writing was full of shit, and Faulkner was an unrewarded literary genius. I flipped the pages in my scrapbook, and discovered old photographs from after I got married and had children of my own. The photograph was taken at a museum, the painting in the background was of an old man in his final moments on his deathbed. Isn’t the irony of this just grand? My wife was a such beautiful woman with blonde hair and a nice skin complexion and the kids weren’t bad either.

My wife remarked ‘’ This painting is so beautiful, don’t you think so honey?’‘

I said ‘’Uh huh.’‘

‘’Oh look it’s the Mona Lisa!’‘ she beamed ‘’Painted by Leonardo DaVinci.’‘

‘’Nah, it’s just some copy made by a painter the museum hired.’‘ I retorted.

She gave me a dirty look and said ‘’It is not, it’s an authentic DaVinci!’‘

‘’And I suppose the copy of The Last Supper over there is an authentic DaVinci too, huh?’‘ I cracked.

She snapped. ‘’Of course it is!’‘

‘’God your so gullible!’‘ I retorted ‘’You think everything on Earth is authentic.’‘

My wife passed away a few years back, looking back on these arguments makes me realize how much I miss her. I flipped through the scrapbook some more, and found some photographs of my grandchildren when they were small. We were all on vacation in Greece, visiting the homeland of our ancestors, before our aristocratic bloodline came to the Southern part of the United States.

My bewildered grandson said ‘’I can’t believe we’re standing on top of Mount Olympus!’‘

‘’Yeah. I feel just how Zeus would’ve felt, just without the power to send lightning bolts down to strike unsuspecting mortals.’‘ I said.

‘’Oh, would you stop thinking about yourself for one minute.’‘ said my wife. ‘’It always has to be about you, you, and you!’‘

I told her ‘’Well we’re among gods, honey. So it has to be about me, me, and me.’‘

‘’Oh give me a god damn break!’‘ she exclaimed.

All of a sudden, a bolt of lightning appeared out of the heavens, and it started raining. We ran for cover, my wife just had to speak of the gods in vain. If she had just let me ramble on and on and on, things would’ve been fine.

My kids and their own started filling out the room around my deathbed, the doctor asked them to come in. The room had become almost a gallery full of people I loved. They were all wiping the tears from their eyes, and it was just depressing to watch. Everyone just wanted to hold my hand, and they were so upset over the idea of losing me. This part of it seemed quite touching, and I almost started to cry myself. It was at this moment, I almost didn’t want to leave them. My oldest son then took my hand.

‘’How are you holding up?’‘ he asked.

I said ‘’Dying, and you?’‘

‘’At least you’ve still got your sense of humor.’‘ he said. ‘’But it’s not enough to stop the pain inside.’‘

He burst into tears, and I held him as he lay crying on my chest. It was just too much to bear for me, even for someone who was about to die, then all of a sudden I just faded away. My spirit ascended from my body, and the next thing I knew, I was entering a tunnel with a light at the end. And as I walked through the tunnel, I saw these beautiful white clouds, I passed by St. Peter, and these gates made of gold opened up.

As soon as I walked in, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway were arguing right in front of me! It was so surreal, they argued so loud, it made the heavens cringe, it was unbelievable. I stood their in awe of their heated conversation. These two seemed to rip the skies apart with their words, I don’t even think the divine angels floating by us could contain their fear of the ensuing argument. One would think God would’ve separated these two by now.

Hemingway shouted ‘’The Sound and The Fury was without a doubt the worst book I have ever read in my entire life!’‘

‘’At least it was a full length novel, not some tiny pice in Life Magazine, such as The Old Man and The Sea for example.’‘ Faulkner retorted.

‘’It won me a Nobel Prize!’‘ exclaimed Hemingway ‘’What did your awful long, boring, drawn out stories ever get you?’‘

‘’I also got a Nobel Prize!’‘ said Faulkner ‘’A full 15 years before you did!’‘

Hemingway shouted ‘’You and your Southern Renaissance BS make me wanna puke!’‘

‘’Oh yeah? Well take your Lost Generation and shove it!’‘ retorted Faulkner.

Then I saw Leonardo DaVinci creating his next masterpiece, he used a mixture of primary colors red, yellow, and blue while painting the background of his canvas. Then he used a mixture of secondary colors orange, green, and purple forming some of the objects in the painting. He turned around and looked at me with a big smile on his face and a bright gleam in his eye. He acted as if I had known him for years and years and years. He put down his paintbrush and shook my hand.

He asked ‘’So you still think those paintings you and your wife saw in the museum were fakes?’‘

‘’They weren’t?’‘ I asked.

He said ‘’No.’‘

I wondered out loud ‘’Was Mona Lisa smiling in your portrait?’‘

‘’An artist never reveals his secrets.’‘ he answered.

I asked ‘’What about the secret code you hid in the last supper?’‘

‘’I’m not telling you.’‘ he said.

I asked ‘’Do you know the meaning of life?’‘

‘’Yes, but you’ll have to find it out on your own, I can’t help you.’‘ he said.

‘’Oh, I see. But thanks for letting me know. ‘’ I answered.

And then, my wife appeared out of nowhere, it was the first time I had seen her since she died. We hugged and shared a long passionate kiss. Then we both looked up, and saw the gods looking down upon us. We had our arms around each other, looking above, wondering what the afterlife had in store for them.

‘’I’ve missed you honey.’‘ I said.

She told me ‘’So have I.’‘

‘’But one thing’s for sure’‘. I said ‘’We’ll never be separated again.’‘

‘’I just hope those we love on Earth are alright.’‘she said.

I said. ‘’Don’t worry, they’ll be fine honey.’‘