Michael's Story

For the first time since he was paralyzed by a drunken gunman four years ago, Michael Dixon is going home to Linden, to the little blue house near the Tennessee River where he was raised.

It's July 4, time for the annual picnic and pig roast, where the Dixons and two neighboring families, the Howards and the Thompsons, get together for "a lot of greetin', but a lot more eatin'."

It's also a time to celebrate the birthday of Dot Dixon, the matriarch of the family, who turned 59 the day before.

Excited and upbeat about seeing friends and family, Michael is anxious to get on the road, but at the moment, preparations aren't going as smoothly as he would like. Pandemonium reigns at his usually quiet apartment off Brick Church Pike. Kids are everywhere, crying, shouting, watching cartoons, constantly coming in and out.

"Taleesha, will you close that door," Shirley Greer, Michael's older sister and primary caregiver, commands her 5-year-old, a diminutive sprite with a dozen red, yellow and green hair ball clasps in her hair. That her mama calls her by her full name instead of "Leelee," her nickname, is a clue she should be quick in responding.

But seconds later, the door re-opens and kids spill in. Most are Michael's nephews and nieces, but a few of the younger ones are cousins' kids. They are all going to Linden with "Uncle Mike."

To them, he is "the man who can't move" so they understand that today's journey is significant. Michael is leaving his house, not just to go to church, the doctor's office or the occasional movie, but to travel two hours to Perry County. There, they have been told and they have seen in photographs, Michael once was a little boy just like them.

Because he does not own a vehicle that can accommodate his 300-pound wheelchair, Michael travels infrequently. When he goes to church or to the mall, he usually calls Metro Access Ride, a service of the Metropolitan Transit Authority, but trips usually have to be scheduled a day in advance, a process he considers a hassle.

Today, he is splurging, renting a lift-equipped Chevy van, but at $90 a day it's not an option Michael can routinely afford.

Hopefully, his transportation dilemma will end soon. For two years, he's been saving a nest egg, which combined with a grant from local agencies that provide assistance to physically and mentally challenged individuals, should be adequate to purchase his own vehicle. He's been looking in the classifieds for weeks, but can't find a van both affordable and large enough to accommodate a wheelchair lift.

But all that can wait. Today, he's going home.

Shirley, or "Shirl" as she is known, moves at a frenzied pace, packing salads and desserts into the van, making sure Michael has the dozen or so medicines he takes on a daily basis, checking to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything, but all the while, feeling she is missing something.

Her sister Marylin, or "Mert," finishes dressing Michael. She ties the laces on his black tennis shoes and adjusts the coat zipper on his tan exercise suit, then she squeezes a squiggly line of Crest onto a toothbrush and begins brushing her brother's teeth. He is seated in his wheelchair next to the hospital bed that occupies most of his apartment's living room. From the bed, "Little Man," a robust infant who is Mert's grandson, looks up at the two and coos.

Coming back inside, wilted from packing the van in the shadeless street, an exasperated Shirl exclaims: "Let's get out of here!"

The hog has been roasting over hot coals all night, sweetening the air around the Dixon house with tantalizing scents of hickory smoke and searing meat.

Late in the morning, a group of bleary-eyed men circle the pig and pronounce their deed is done. They stand in judgment of their handiwork, passing around steaming samples plucked from a hind quarter with a fork.

"Pretty good," judges Farris Thompson, a wet towel wrapped around his neck to cool him from the combined heat of the July sun and wood fire.

The men represent three families, the Thompsons, Howards and Dixons, two white and one black, who have called one another neighbors and friends for more than four decades.

In addition to Farris, there's his son, Randy. The Thompson homeplace is one hill over from the Dixons'.

Representing the Howards in the circle is Benny, who was raised a quarter-mile away. While their mother worked at the family's store, he and his late brother, Jimmy, grew up under the watchcare of Michael's maternal grandmother, Pearl Barber.

"We called her Mama Pearl. She practically raised us," Benny says affectionately. "She was the boss of all of us and when she died, Dot sort of took over."

Later in life, Jimmy would coach all five of Dot's boys, Mama Pearl's grandsons, in basketball at nearby Pope Elementary.

Two of Michael's brothers are part of the circle around the fire: Robert, known as "Bo," and Nat. Bo lives in Battle Creek, Mich., while Nat resides just across the Tennessee River in Decatur County.

"This whole neighborhood has just grown up together, black and white. We never thought too much about it," says Randy.

Benny points to a rusty basketball rim. "Them kids played right there all night long. When parents came by here and saw their kids were at Dot's white, black, pink, purple, whatever it was OK. They knew they were safe here," he says.

"I wish the whole world could be more like this place," laments Nat.

Had the world lived by the rules of the hills and hollows of rural Perry County, Michael would not have been shot, the group agrees. Somehow, the conversation always comes around to Michael, to what happened on that Saturday night in 1993 when a stranger fired a gun repeatedly into his car.

Each of the men around the fire remembers where he was when news of the shooting reached him. Nat says he received a frantic call from his sisters in Nashville and minutes later picked up his mother and headed to the hospital. The Thompsons and Benny Howard say they learned of the shooting early the next morning. Bo recalls he was contacted in Michigan just as he was about to leave for Sunday worship services.

"They told me it was a 9 millimeter so I knew it was bad. I went on to church and prayed," Bo remembers.

"He was the last one that anybody ever thought would be shot. I've been in some places where if something happened, well, I was just somewhere I shouldn't have been. With Mike, though, he was always at church, work, school, minding his own business, never messing with anybody."

There is a pause as the men consider this. In the fire, a log pops with a mild report and a fresh wind changes the direction of the smoke.

"It's just a sad, sad mystery to all of us why it had to happen," says Benny.

The white Chevy van turns off Highway 50 onto the county road in western Perry County that leads to the Dixon place. When the vehicle rolls to a halt in front of Dot's house, kids spill from every open door of the van, glad to be free.

Dot, wearing a red, white and blue shirt in honor of the holiday, moves to help her daughters, who ferry food from the van to a makeshift table already groaning from the weight of other dishes.

Michael is the last out.

Shirl punches a button to lower Michael's chair to the ground, then pushes him underneath a green canopy borrowed for the day from a local undertaker.

"Hey bro!" a familiar booming voice calls to him. It is Bo.

Nat is next to greet him, followed by aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces, as well as the Thompsons and Howards.

Michael's 92-year-old paternal grandmother, Jimmie Mae Dixon, requests a steady hand so she can rise from her wheelchair and nuzzle Michael's cheek.

"That's just what I needed," she whispers to him.

The pig is deemed a worthy sacrifice. Everyone eats and eats and, at Dot's insistence, eats some more.

"Ya'll got to eat this food," she says in false lament.

Even with her prodding, the table still sags from casserole dishes and cast iron pots of greens and new potatoes and half circles of uneaten cakes when guests start fading away late in the afternoon.

The Howards leave first, then the Thompsons, each stopping to say goodbye to Michael.

"You take care of yourself," says Benny.

The sun is low on the horizon when Shirl packs the rented van for the return trip to Nashville. Only the Dixons remain now under the green funeral home canopy, a mixture of old and young, mothers and children, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews and his grandmother.

Michael asks to say a prayer. There is a moment of silence before he begins, with the only sound the rhythmical whirring of the portable ventilator that helps him breathe.

His prayer is an eight minute benediction honoring the names of God friend of the oppressed, defender of the weak, the great judge, the one who blesses. Michael's voice is strong and his words float on the summer air.

By the time he utters "Amen," a thin bead of sweat has formed on his forehead.

Then it's his grandmother's turn.

"I want to sing you a hymn before you go," the stooped, white-haired lady says. She inhales a deep breath and launches into a protestant standard, her strong contralto voice belying the frailty of her body.

"Where He leads me I will follow,
"Where He leads me I will follow,
"Where He leads me I will follow,
"I'll go with Him, with Him all the way."

At the sounding of the last note there's not a dry eye anywhere.

"Thank you," Michael says to the woman, who touches his hand.

It is nearly dark by the time Shirl maneuvers the van toward I-40. The vehicle is quiet. Taleesha and her 7-year-old brother, Adrian, are asleep on the back bench.

"I prayed for a good day and I got one," Michael says wearily.

With that, he also closes his eyes, allowing the sound of the tires revolving on the asphalt to lull him to sleep, perhaps even to dream.

That would be the perfect ending to a perfect day, for in his dreams, he runs.