Paved with Diamonds
I.
It was 1963, and my parents were
moving to Jacksonville, Florida.
Why me? Cheerleader, in the 7th grade
in love with the boy of my dreams.
I practiced writing my name-to-be:
—Mrs. Lynn James Benoit—
But what did it matter to parents
bent on their own way?
A southern girl takes her vows seriously.
I promised undying love; packed pink
curlers, record player and bobby socks,
tight skirt and sweaters; wished the S.J.
Welsh Middle School every possible win,
then moved to another planet.
II.
Jacksonville's highways were
paved with diamonds
glittering in the hot sun.
Daddy drove to Jax beach.
Mama saw them first: whitecaps
rolling high above the skyline,
then folding over, it seemed, on top
of the highway. I thought Beach Blvd.
ran straight to the depths of the ocean.
Daddy drove beneath tall archways
onto sand, where miles of white
met crashing surf; long wooden
boardwalks lined with hot dog stands,
loud music, surfboards and boys—
beach boys, dark tans, sun-bleached
hair and other people unlike ourselves.
III.
Heaven on the east coast was buried
beneath the glum of the west side.
Clumpy saddle oxford shoes, pageboy
haircut—old fashioned. I chopped off
my dishwater blond hair, threw socks
and shoes to the back of the closet and
stayed in my room, while the rest of my
family watched Hoss and Little Joe
ride the Ponderosa.
Who needs friends? I reasoned.
Roy Orbison sang "Only the Lonely,"
and "Blue Bayou."
I wrote poems to Lynn.
IV.
Mama had a plan:
Cut more of my hair;
add a permanent.
My baby-fine hair
frizzed and burned!
Next, penny loafers,
matching leather belt,
bleeding madras shirt,
burgundy A-line skirt,
and my own bottle of
English Leather cologne.
"Now!" she said.
V.
Friday found me at a drive-in
on a double date. My friend
introduced me to boys parked
on the left side of our car.
Later, one of those boys asked
my friend for my number.
He called the next morning:
"We're going swimming," he said.
I saw rolling waves, sand, and
falling in love with the miracle boy
walking the shores of my soul.
"It's in a canal," he said.
I saw bottomless pits, dark waters,
and unknown monsters swimming
through murky depths. He laughed.
"Come with me," he said,
"I'll show you heaven on earth."
We packed fried chicken, drinks,
and seven other kids into the car.
VI.
The place was like home—shade
trees reaching across deep water.
While the others lined up to jump
from a rope in the tree, I sat on the
ground running my fingers through
thick velvet Saint Augustine grass.
He held my hand and led me
to the top of the tree. If I kept
my eyes open, pumping my legs
as soon as I hit water, I did not go deep.
"Let's jump two at a time," someone said.
"It's easier on the bottom," he promised.
I felt the wind in my face, the thick rope
clutched in my hands—and fear.
If I did not let go, I would swing back
and hit the tree. We jumped.
When his foot hit the top of my head,
I lost all faith. Hitting the water a second
before him, I sank deeper and deeper,
until I knew, I would never see
the Florida sunshine again!
Fighting my way to surface, I climbed
on shore, trembling. He handed me a
towel, and told me to come with him
to the other side of the tree.
VII.
When I could talk, I told him I hated
my hair, hated Florida, and hated
my parents for making me move.
I told him my aunt believed out of
sight was out of mind but granny said
absence made the heart grow fonder.
I didn't know which was true, but I
was afraid my friends would forget me.
When I quit crying, he said, "In Louisiana
you call this a bayou. We call them canals.
Some of ours are man-made but they are
almost the same. I don't want you to leave
but if you do, I won't forget you."
He liked my Cajun accent and my scraggly
hair. "I think boys should have long hair
and girls should have short," he explained.
His father was a truck driver. "If you leave,
one day, I'll come knocking on your door.
I'll jump in his truck and I'll find you—
even in Louisiana. I'm different. I want
to be free like a bird flying over this
water, and I want my own band."
He told me of a band in England, a group
people did not like. "Especially their
leader," he said, leaning back in the grass.
"Mick's a real rebel. They call them
the Rolling Stones. You've heard the
saying 'a rolling stone gathers no moss'?
Well, that's me. I want to fly through
the world with no worries." His favorite
song was Heart of Stone.
I didn't know who Mick Jagger was
and I had never met a truck driver,
but I knew I had met someone I would
never forget. And that day, on the banks
of a Florida canal—I learned to be still,
I learned to look out over the water,
and I fell in love for the very last time.
For Ronnie Van Zant, 1948-1977
