Mister Frank

Crackling, crisping, clicking flames leaped over a pile of dirty wood. On a balmy, sixty degree, sun-shining day it seemed unnecessary. Viewed from an insulated window the scene would appear no more extraordinary than a bundled, winter-walker sauntering down a bright sunny road. A large pile of wood for the burning sat next to the flames and was slowly, methodically, cautiously being depleted. A few hundred yards behind him, cargo ships loomed large, flanked on all sides by small fishing boats. The giant vessels lay stagnant supported by deciduous trees. Gleaming steel and the barnacle laden undersides lay exposed for the first time since the ship’s genesis.

Mister Frank, as he was almost universally known, could have only been more suited for this event if he was wearing gloves with the fingers chopped off. As it was, he wore the lower extremity equivalent, almost European looking capris hung loosely from his full belly withholding a hearty laugh. He sat, exposed ankles soaking in the unnecessary heat. He held a hammer in one hand and he jerkily clawed nail after nail from pieces of moldy wood to throw in a bucket. To his right, he collected a small pile of set-apart wood. Shoddily stenciled lambs and hearts graced the crown molding. Two small fragments he set aside, and looked at with a half-smile. On his left, he laid the rest of the wood. Periodically, he rose to grab a scrap of the fragmented timber and send it hissing into the fire.

Over his right shoulder, he glanced back to see his wife, Miss Liz exiting from their brand-new home. In her bathrobe, she descended the steps of their FEMA trailer and grinned at him. She carried cup of piping coffee to set on the chair next to him, furthering the mistaken winter-image. Miss Liz too, glanced over at the pile of sheep wood and let a gentle melancholy smile grace her face. Silently, she put a hand on Mister Frank’s shoulder, and retreated to the confines of the white trailer. Mister Frank stood, stretched, rubbed his hands over the fire only because he believed it was what one should do in this situation.

Standing and turning his head, Mister Frank glanced back at the source of his fuel. A thirty by thirty wood frame stood capped above ten feet by the remnants of aluminum siding and the glistening, sandpaper black shingled roof. He glanced back to his wood pile and a shiver did run through his spine. Enough shivering he thought as he took a pull from his stoneware mug. His eyes followed the dirt track from his pile, to the pile at the shipwreck. Instead of separating iron nails from their pile, Sternitz Brothers Shipbuilding had nothing but iron. Rusted metal scraps loomed large above the barbed wire fence protecting the area.

His eyes traveled the horizon, past the small suspension bridge, along the road of his exodus two weeks prior, through the rich forest and rested on the Caribbean Clipper. He began to imagine the tumult they must have felt as Katrina beat on them with her snarling backhand. The crew of Columbians on the ship were found only days ago, too scared to exit after the storm, and too high above the forested island upon which they landed. They sent one lone messenger down in a lifeboat from Ararat to try and obtain supplies for the rest of the crew.

Mister Frank had left town three weeks earlier on the advice of the town’s leaders. He thought he had been through the worst before, but heeded the warning nonetheless. He only needed to travel a few miles inland to take refuge in Bayou La Batre Christian Church on higher ground. Most of the town’s residents took refuge in the church, forming the city on the hill, lit my candlelight, looking down on the brooding of Katrina.

While most of the world was focusing on Saints marching in to New Orleans, Mister Frank laid holed up at the church. The waters receded, as did his home. Weeks later, FEMA unhitched his brand new residence and he returned to his plot of land with his wife. The memory of the experience did not carry pain with it. Mister Frank was sure he had known pain, but couldn’t recall what it was. Instead he continued to ply nails from timber and press on, the only thing he had ever learned to do.