The Blue and the Grey

Note: Like me, my son Charles "Brian" Fortney was a writer. Brian passed away unexpectedly (from a brain bleed) at 33 on May 13, 2021. He wrote the following essay in 2011.

I made my way down the hill on the chilly winter’s morning from my little house in rural East Texas. We lived way out of town as the crow flies. I remember driving through those woods back and forth as a kid whether with my stepdad or mother. One time we saw a baby deer dart across the road, its coat covered in white spots as it disappeared into the forest in search of its mother. I loved that house tucked away into the woods, away from the hustle and bustle of the busy world. The horses played off in the pasture while the donkey nipped at them. It was a peaceful time. We would gather sticks and string them together to make a fort, and our imaginations would run wild with ideas as we formed our own primitive society and bartered with any of the numerous pieces of petrified wood that lay on the forest floor. We would dress up in authentic “Silver War” uniforms and I was forced to play Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, the famous Yankee commander who saved the Battle of Gettysburg for the North, all the while truly wanting to play Stonewall Jackson or the like. My imagination received even more fuel when I’d sneak into the dining room and watch Civil War documentaries and wonder which side I like most; usually it was the grey because they seemed naturally more interesting to my budding mind.

“Who were the bad guys?” I’d ask after listening for a short period and wanting to make sense of it all.

“There were no bad guys,” said my stepfather as he looked at the screen, gently understanding the natural curiosity an 8-year-old would have on the complicated subject.

It was a brief time of paradise.

I made my way down the ravine next to our house as my brother tagged along on the lazy Sunday morning. In my usual style, I had let my imagination get ahead of me when I spied the vine hanging out over the little pool of icy cold water at the bottom of the ravine.

“Do it! You can make it!” said my brother Bobby as I stared at the vine beckoning me from the shallow pool.

Regardless of his goading, in true Tarzanlike fashion, I summoned my courage and sprung from the precipice and I gripped the vine in both hands. A moment of ecstasy as it held followed by a brief moment of horror when with a sudden crack it broke under my 60 pounds of naiveté and I dropped into the water back first. I can at least say it was a good bit of entertainment for my younger brother as he cackled while I trudged up the hill over the bed of brown and red leaves with my pants and shoes soaked. The only worry I had at that moment was the prospect of facing my mother and having to describe the action that led to my current predicament. Icy dread pulsed across my body as I reached the top.

“What were you thinking?” was the general response to my appearance.

Then with loving care she calmed my anxiety and got me a new set of clothes. Have I learned my lesson from that experience in the flower of my youth? I’d say I have a little less trust for vines in East Texas as opposed to the jungles of the Congo or their depiction in the Tarzan film with Christopher Lambert. I saw most of my movies when I visited my dad in the “big town” of Nacogdoches 30 miles west of Garrison. Alien, Tarzan, Jaws, you name it I saw it when my mother’s watchful eyes were miles to the East and my Dad labored away with the daily demands of his furniture business on the red brick Main Street of Downtown Nacogdoches.

“Nac o downtowwwnn Doches! He would say on his commercials in true furniture salesman fashion and we would both pretend we were big-time, Gallery Furniture Style.

I would watch Star Wars and Civil War documentaries and the occasional Sesame Street at my Mom’s and on the weekends when I visited my dad all bets were off. The feeling of free at last, free at last, would pervade my senses. Do I approve now? Well let’s just say movies are movies. I wasn’t ever able to see Terminator or Forrest Gump for years later though. In retaliation I would watch James Cameron’s earlier R-rated sci-fi flicks at my dad’s. Revenge was sweet.

Naturally I sought to imitate the protagonist’s exploits and thus we arrive back at our original predicament. I’ll leave the vine swinging to Tarzan, I decided. I can still climb trees.

My restless spirit for thrill and adventure had faced its first brutal obstacle. There’s no telling how many harrowing disasters were avoided thanks to that flimsy deceitful vine centered smack dab over the pool of icy cold reality. My imagination still gets the best of me but at least now there’s a voice in my head reminding me of that lazy Sunday morning in East Texas deep in the forest where we knew no pain but that of our own infliction.

My mother wasn’t all work and no play I eventually found one Saturday night. Turns out she has her own tastes in film I realized. Just the two of us. She said “Are you hungry?” “Yes.” “What do you want?” Fried Chicken was my natural and I deemed appropriate response.

To my surprise she agreed and we went to the gas station deli and loaded up on juicy fried chicken, potato wedges, and corn, and I immediately forgave her for the restrictions on movie watching to which I’d been subject. The straw that broke the camel’s back came when she turned on the tube to Who Framed Roger Rabbit and we sat back and drank coke and filled up on fried foods while enjoying the captivating mystery.

This beats any boring afternoon alone watching Hercules at my dad’s I concluded. I knew it was only a rare treat but somehow the mind stores such simplistically beautiful moments for later use and there it has remained for 17 years. Who cares if the other boys have seen Forrest Gump? I got to see animated characters talking to real people to complete my list of 80’s films.

Don’t get me wrong. My dad took my brother and me to do lots of interesting things at the end of the day as we rode two to a seat in his work van unless we were willing to brave the back as was often the case unless he installed the back seats that were usually absent to make way for furniture. Let’s see. One time he took us to a crawfish festival the likes of which I haven’t seen since. In the morning we would go the Brookshire Brothers and feast at the breakfast buffet before the day started. We would ride our bike across banana creek in true tandem fashion. Sometimes I wonder if I’m simply over-glorifying the whole period. But I do think that it gives credence to the phrase “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” There are so many things I wish I could tell that little kid but I’d hate to spoil his fun.

I still don’t know the answer to who the good guys and bad guys were. But I think it doesn’t matter. They were caught up in their own time and place moved by factors out of their control, as I was. Sometimes all you can do is lunge for the vine. If it breaks and you plunge into the icy cold water, at least you have that brief moment where you think you’re going to swing over the precipice and conquer the uncertainty that holds you back. Even if you fail, you learn more from the fall than if the vine hadn’t given way and you end up having quite a story to tell. I’m glad I played Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain looking back and I’m glad I never saw Forrest Gump. The right path is determined by your elders and when they’re not around you discover things on your own. Luckily the only time I had to do so was in a 2-foot-deep pool. My mom was the blue and my dad was the grey. I’ve learned to appreciate both, and it turns out neither one was wrong and they were both right.