What Difference Do It Make?

  As a matter of fact, Joshua remembers that the best time he ever had growing up was when he and his friend, Melvin, would collect pine cones, like soldiers stocking an ammo depot, and fire them, like grenades, at squirrels.

  But the whites in Birmingham looked down their noses on such things. The general opinion seemed to be that if a boy was going to harass woodland creatures, that was fine and well. But he ought to do it with someone of his own race.

  “The day a white woman asked me why I was wasting time with the black kids haunts me still,” Joshua says. And that was in the 1980s.

  Years later, Joshua married an African-American woman. Then in 2002, he wore out the knees of his jeans in turbulent prayer with God over his mother’s battle with cancer.

  “Kill the cancer!” he would pray. “Don’t take my mom away!”

  His mom’s name is Debbie.

  “When God chose to heal my mom, I started believing in miracles,” Joshua says. “Maybe I would have seen more if I hadn’t waited so late to start believing. It’s a shame so many people die lonely and tied up with hate. I figure now, at twenty-nine years old, one of the biggest reasons people miss the face of Jesus is because of how they hate the color of someone else’s skin.”

  18

  Ron

  Eighteen months after Same Kind of Different as Me came out, I took a copy of the Sunday New York Times to share with Mama and Daddy. Miraculously, our book had made the bestseller list.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Daddy said. “Why would anybody want to read a book about you and Denver? Y’all ain’t nobody, and you sure ain’t no John Grisham!”

  I swallowed my irritation. “You’re right, Dad. We are a couple of nobodies. But the good news is, we were loved by a real somebody named Deborah.”

  Then it really hit me. Apart from Deborah’s love and Christlike forgiveness—forgiveness I didn’t deserve—Denver and I would have never had a story to tell. She threw my sin as far as the east is from the west and never mentioned it again. For twelve years, not a day passed that I didn’t think about what I’d done. I don’t know if she did or not, but never once did she even insinuate that she remembered.

  I don’t believe my dad ever did anything intentionally to hurt me the way I did to Debbie. And yet for sixty years, the equivalent of a life sentence, I had withheld love from him because of my unwillingness to forgive him. Sure, I had done nice things for him and Mama. On the surface, I had acted the part of a good son. But in so many small ways I had punished him, discriminated against him for his weakness. Deborah had quickly forgiven me much, yet I had held on to my resentment, unwilling to give it up. It was my turn to let go of my grudge and really forgive him, though he didn’t deserve it, and not beat him over the head with it ever again.

  That day, I invited my daddy to spend a couple of days at Rocky Top, just the two of us. He packed an overnight bag and grabbed the Stetson I had given him the Christmas we bought the ranch. We sat on the patio and watched wild things cross the river and the eagles roost in the big cottonwoods. When the stars came out, I built a fire, opened a bottle of cabernet, and lit two Davidoff cigars. We toasted and reminisced; he began crying; then I did too.

  He told me about his grandfather, a drover born in 1860 who made the first of many trips up the cattle trails when he was just fourteen. Frank Hopson was a cowboy and horse trader who had lived in Hamilton and Hico, towns just thirty miles from where we were sitting. Frank was my great-grandfather, Mama Clara’s daddy I’d never heard about. The three sisters and Dad had taken care of him for the last twenty years of his life until he died in 1937. I missed knowing him, but as a kid, I dreamed of being a cowboy just like him. That night, looking over the Brazos with my daddy, I met Frank Hopson for the first time.

  “This is the best day of my life,” Earl said to me that night, his voice breaking with sobs. “I’m eighty-nine, and I never thought I’d ever get to have a drink with you!”

  It felt good. It felt right.

  Then, as the fire slowly simmered down to embers, my daddy began to recite poetry. First Longfellow, then Robert Frost’s “The Road Less Traveled.” The moment surprised me. I had never thought of him as being interested in literature or culture of any kind. But his recitation was brilliant—perfect in pitch and rhythm. No wonder his old buddies had loved drinking with him; the old man was smart and funny.

  I read him a poem I’d written about my granddaddy, my mother’s father, Jack Brooks. I call it “Boots Too Big to Fill.” He cried, not knowing how much I had loved his father-in-law. He’d never really gotten to know him. (Granddaddy didn’t drink either.)

  “Write a poem about me,” Earl said that night.

  And I will, though it hasn’t come to me just yet. Over a bottle of wine and two cigars, I met my father on his terms. And for the first time in my life, I liked him.

  We talked about Jesus. My brother had prayed with him fifteen years earlier to receive salvation. Daddy said he believed he still had it. I do too. We prayed again, thanking God that it was a gift not to be taken back.

  After midnight, the fire went out. We sipped the dregs of our drinks, and I helped him to his room.

  “This has been the best day of my life!” he declared again.

  We finally agreed on something. It had been one of the best days of my life too.

  That Christmas, I gave my daddy a gallon jug of Jack Daniels Black Label. He cried once more. “It’s the nicest present anyone gave me!”

  That was saying something since I’d remodeled his whole house, bought him all new furniture, and given him a Jeep Grand Cherokee just a few years ago! But he was so proud of that bottle of liquor. He called all his friends and neighbors to come see his “Black Jack” displayed on the coffee table like a Henry Moore sculpture. In his mind, it was way too valuable to drink. He never opened it but kept it on display. After all, it was his favorite gift ever. He had just turned ninety.

  19

  Denver

  When I was just a little fella, folks said there was a man named Roosevelt who lived in a white house and that he was tryin to make things better for colored folks. But there was a whole lotta white folks, ’specially sheriffs, that liked things just the way they was. Lotta times this was mighty discouragin to the colored men, and they would just up and leave, abandonin their women and children. Some was bad men. But some was just ashamed they couldn’t do no better. That ain’t no excuse, but it’s the God’s honest truth.

  I thought Lupe Murchison’s house was big, but I hadn’t never seen nothin like that place where the president and his wife lives at. It was never in my mind or my personality that I would ever wind up at the White House. It was never even my desire. So when me and Mr. Ron rolled up to the gates in a dark blue limousine, it was like bein’ in a movie.

  Mr. Ron and I was invited to eat lunch with the Bush family right in the upstairs part of the White House. It was a part of a celebration of reading that the president’s mama was in charge of. I guess she’s purty big on readin. Well, we drove ’round a driveway in the shape of a circle and rolled up to some doors guarded by Marines. They were lookin mighty sharp in their uniforms, which was the same color as the car. We got out the limo, and I never did see one of them fellas so much as bat an eyelash. I was glad they’s on my side.

  Once we was inside, we went into this fancy room that Mr. Ron said was where the diplomats come to. It was a mighty nice place with lots a’ big ol’ paintins of old-timey men on the walls. With all them rugs and flowers and big ol’ sparklin lamps, the place reminded me of that Worthington Hotel in Fort Worth where I went and accepted that award for all Miss Debbie’s hard work. When I was sleepin on the heatin vent out behind the hotel, I never did ’xpect to go in that place either.

  Now here I was at the president’s house, and we was s’posed to meet up there with some other folks that wrote some a’ Miz Bush’s favorite books. Purty soon they started to come in. One of ’em was Marcus Luttrell.

  Mr. Ron
said this fella was a war hero in Afghanistan who had earned a Navy Cross. I was honored to be there with him. He came in as a guest with a lady that turned out to be married to the governor of Texas.

  “I want you to sit by me at lunch, Denver,” she said.

  A coupla other writers came in, too, and I got introduced to em. Jim Nance, a sports fella from TV, was one of ’em. He had written a book.

  We got to go on a little tour of the place, even walked right by the president’s office, and then we went to the private elevator that the president hisself uses to go upstairs to get some sleep or get hisself somethin to eat. Along the way, I seen some men in suits with wires stickin outta their ears. They was nice enough, but I could tell if I’d a’ looked cross-eyed, they’d a’ taken me down to the fancy carpet with no questions asked.

  Ron went up first ’cause the elevator could only take a few people at a time. Then I rode up, and when the doors opened, there was these two white ladies just a-smilin at me.

  “Denver Moore!” said a lady with silvery hair and a necklace around her neck. “I am so glad to finally meet you! Can I have a hug?”

  I didn’t know whether I was s’posed to do that since I had had a lot of trouble with white ladies in my life. But Mr. Ron leaned over and said, “It’s okay. That’s Barbara Bush, the president’s mother.” So I walked over and gave Miz Bush a hug. She smelled like flowers.

  There was another lady standin there, too, and I had seen her on TV enough times to know that she was Laura Bush, the president’s wife.

  Then one of ’em said to me—I can’t remember which one—that she was proud I’d learned to read and write. That’s somethin I been workin on the last coupla years. And I don’t know that I’m proud, but I got to admit it makes gettin ’round town a whole lot easier.

  Laura Bush said her husband, the president, was gon’ come up and join us, but he was tied up with somethin right then, and did we want to go out on the balcony for a little snack?

  While we was walkin out there, Mr. Ron told me we was in the “residence,” the part of the White House where all the presidents have lived. And when we got out on the balcony, there was one of ’em sittin right there! It was Miz Bush’s husband, the first President Bush. He was mighty nice to me.

  Out there on the balcony, it was a warm spring day, and we could see that great big flat pond and that famous statue that points up to the sky like a giant railroad spike. I sat down at a table, and some waiters in bow ties started comin ’round with trays full a’ food I seen at some a’ them fancy places Mr. Ron dragged me to. But I was too nervous to eat much ’cause I was afraid them teeth Mr. Ron had made for me might fall out. It had happened before, and I didn’t want it to happen in front a’ no president!

  Well, we sat out there sippin our drinks until Miz Bush asked if we’d like her to show us around the place. I ’specially remember two places she took us. One was the president’s private office. He had a TV in there, and I ’xpect he could sit down in there and watch some baseball if he wanted to. The most amazin thing about that office was the desk. Miz Bush told us it was the desk where President Lincoln hisself had signed the Emancipation Proclamation all them years ago. I thought that was really somethin—that I would be standin there, a black man, the great-grandson of slaves, now a guest a’ honor in the White House, standin here lookin at the spot where a great man signed the paper that set my family free. It was somethin I never woulda dreamed of.

  Next place we stopped was in the Lincoln bedroom. I swear everthing in that place was gold! Gold curtains, gold carpet, gold chairs. There was even a giant golden crown over the top of the bed. I was standin there tryin to keep my mouth from hangin open when I heard Laura Bush speak up. “Well, hi, sweetheart. I’m so glad you made it.”

  I turned around and wadn’t lookin at nobody but the president hisself.

  George W. Bush walked right up to me and stuck out his hand. “Denver Moore! What an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Well, I felt like I had to be dreamin now. Here was the president of the United States of America, treatin me, a poor homeless man off the street, like I was some kinda important person. I didn’t know what to think. I don’t even remember what I said back to him . . . somethin ’bout bein glad to meet him, too, I imagine. But I shook George W. Bush’s hand, and I ain’t the smartest fox in the barnyard, but in that handshake I felt like a whole lotta history passed through: croppin all year just so I could pay the Man, passin by water fountains where a colored man couldn’t get a drink, and spendin most a’ my life bein called a nigger. Bein dragged by my neck behind horses when I was sixteen years old. Scratchin and scrapin and bathin in fountains in Fort Worth. And now here I was, an ol’ ’cropper with a prison record, shakin hands with the most powerfulest man on the earth.

  Ain’t nothin that can do somethin like that but love. The love Miss Debbie had for the homeless had carried me all the way to the White House. And while the president still had ahold a’ my hand, God reminded me of that scripture where He says, “Through Me, all things are possible.”

  All things. Did you hear me?

  The president was a real Texas fella like Mr. Ron, wearing boots and a cowboy belt with his suit. I liked that. Made him seem kinda regular.

  Next thing Mr. Bush did was walk over to that war hero fella, Marcus, and I remember exactly what he said. He said, “Marcus, when I gave you your medal, I gave you my phone number and told you you could call me anytime, day or night. You put your life on the line for our country, and I want to do whatever I can for you. You haven’t called me. I want you to call me.”

  Marcus smiled and was mighty humble. “Yes sir, I’ve got your number, and I know I can call if I need to.”

  Well, we got finished lookin at the Lincoln bedroom and walked out in the hallway again and looked the place over some more. The president hung around with us for ’bout thirty minutes. Him and Mr. Ron knew some of the same folks in Dallas, and I heard ’em talkin about how Mr. Ron and Miss Debbie used to sit behind the Bushes at the Texas Rangers game when Carson and Regan and the Bush girls was little and Mr. Bush owned part a’ the team.

  Purty soon this other fella came out and told us, “Lunch is served,” and we all marched into a fancy dining room. The president couldn’t stay with us for lunch. Laura Bush said somethin had happened in one of them foreign countries, and he had to go tend to it.

  Well, lunch came. I don’t remember what they served exactly, but them waiters in black bow ties brung us lots a’ different plates, a little a’ this and a little a’ that. I liked the food purty good, but I was still mighty worried about my teeth.

  Someone introduced me to the president’s brother and sister. There was another lady there that had wrote a book, and I remember it because I liked the way the title sounded: The Glass Castle.

  All them folks was real nice to me. When it got near the end of the meal, I thought it’d be polite to say how much I appreciated it, so I got everbody’s attention. “I want to thank all you folks for invitin me here today,” I said. “It’s the greatest honor of my life. I wish I could thank you all by name, but to tell you the truth, all you Bushes look alike. Matter a’ fact, all you white folks look alike.”

  I was just tellin it like it was, but I still thought Mr. Ron was gon’ have a heart attack.

  Lookin back on that day, I can’t hardly believe I had lunch at the White House sittin between Laura Bush and the governor of Texas’s wife. I didn’t know whether to be happy or scared. It kinda reminded me a’ that time when Miss Debbie and all them white ladies was sittin outside the mission in Miss Debbie’s car, tryin to get me to go up to that Christian “retreat.” ’Course, this White House thing was just one meal, with just two white ladies to sit between. I thought I could handle that better than goin up to the mountains with a whole carload a’ white ladies and them wantin to cry and pray over me.

  ’Course, if I hadn’t gone to that retreat and had so many folks prayin over me, I might not have ever been
sittin there at the White House. I had gone from livin in the bushes to eatin with the Bushes, and I know a whole lotta prayer went into that.

  CARMEN

  Bossy White Lady

  I was hopin God had done broke the mold for bossy white ladies when he made Miss Debbie. But that was about like hopin Oprah Winfrey was gon’ ask me to marry her, and sho ‘nough, I met Miss Carmen Brown, this lady on the radio down there in Florida. Miss Carmen is on a show called The Morning Cruise with Dave, Bill, and Carmen. She looks like a white man’s dream, and I ain’t gon’ say she was my nightmare, but I will say she pushed me way past the limit on my comfortability.

  First thing she did was float me and Mr. Ron up all across Florida on her radio show, like one of them hot-air balloons. Then she and her radio friends started up a great big bicycle ride to raise money for the homeless and got folks from all over the state to join in. I’m tellin you the truth, that lady can talk to a stump and make it listen! She been talkin ’bout me and Mr. Ron on the radio for more than two years now, and ain’t no sign of her shuttin up.

  I learned a lot from knowin Miss Carmen—geography and stuff like that. First time me and Mr. Ron went to Florida for a visit, we was havin us some breakfast down by the ocean. Now, I ain’t gon’ lie, I was tired of Mr. Ron draggin me all across the country. I asked him, said, if he was such a good businessman, why didn’t he take care a’ all our business the first time we was here so we wouldn’ta come back to the same place?

  Mr. Ron looked at me over his coffee. “Denver, this is our first trip here,” he said.

  “It sure ain’t!” I said. “I remember sittin right here by the water that don’t stop just a couple a’ months ago.”

  “Denver, that was California. We’re in Florida, all the way on the other side of America, three thousand miles away.”