Title: JOE PEAS
Genre: Fiction/Inspirational
Author: Samuel Newsome
Publisher: Lulu
Purchase here.
An extraordinary tale about life, love, faith and
friendship, Joe Peas illustrates how
the most important life lessons sometimes come from the places we least
expect.
About Joe
Peas: Who is Joe Peas? Is he a simple Italian immigrant house
painter, or is he a complicated man with much to hide, even from himself? When the aging painter develops health
problems, his life intersects with that of family physician James King. Dr.
King is drawn to the curious Italian, whose life is a stark contrast to his own
orderly life. The free-spirited painter
and doctor forge a unique friendship—a friendship that only grows when Joe
breaks a hip, and becomes a patient in a long-term care facility where he does
rehabilitation under Dr. King’s care. As
Joe interacts with other residents at the facility, he learns of their
struggles, their triumphs, and witnesses their close relationships with their
families. The spirited little Italian
enriches the lives of the other patients—and encounters with the residents
change Joe in ways he never expected.
Through these interactions, Joe realizes just how much he missed in his
own life. While Joe struggles to come to
term with his past, Dr. King faces his own struggles living in a community that
values conformity over individual expression.
Eager to help his friend, Joe hatches a plan. But that plan—as colorful and vibrant as Joe
himself—sets in motion a chain of events that sheds light on the secrets of the
enigmatic painter. Things are not always what they seem on the surface. Could
there be more—much more—to Joe Peas than meets the eye? And will the truth about the mysterious
painter finally be unveiled?
An extraordinary story that will stay with readers long
after the final page is turned, Joe Peas is
irresistible. Tender and touching, thoughtful and thought provoking, Joe Peas is filled with unforgettable
characters that come to life within the novel’s pages. Informed by Sam Newsome’s experiences as a
physician and educator, Joe Peas is a
powerful story about true healing.
////////////////////////////
Joe
Peas
by
Sam
Newsome
Copyright
2015
Prologue
February 16, 1944
The Battle of
Monte Cassino, sometimes referred to as the Battle for Rome, was as intense as
any combat in the Second World War. Axis troops guarded the mountains and
controlled the Rapido, Liri, and Garigliano River valleys. They controlled the
old Appian Way access to Rome. While the German forces did not occupy the Abbey
of Monte Cassino, they did control the surrounding hillside. Allied forces were
uncertain of the strength of the Axis defenders and whether the abbey was under
Axis control or not.
On February 15
alone, a massive barrage of 1,400 tons of bombs was loosed upon the abbey and
its environs.
American soldiers
of the Fifth Army witnessed the Allied bombardment as they steeled themselves
for yet another assault on the enemy stronghold. The smoke and mist rolled down
into the valley from the hills.
Most of these
weary, battle-hardened soldiers were veterans of the North African campaign. They
had not seen their wives and families for months, if not years. They knew that
nothing or no one could survive such a barrage.
On February 16,
as the smoke began to dissipate and the irritation of the GIs’ eyes cleared, a
patrol noticed a new and unexplained feature on the landscape of no-man’s-land.
A closer investigation revealed what appeared to be only a smoldering pile of
cloth, perhaps a sack. On closer inspection they discovered the cloth to be the
burned and tattered shirt and trousers of a small child. And they were
surprised to find that the waif inside the clothes was still alive. The child
was no more than smoke-stained skin and bones. His hair was filthy and
scorched.
The soldiers
snatched up the child and got him out of harm’s way. Over the next few days, he
gained strength but appeared to be mute. The medics couldn’t tell if this was
shell shock or a more serious medical condition. The homesick GIs refused to
hand the boy over to the authorities. As he gained his strength, he was more or
less adopted by the mess hall personnel.
Eventually the
boy learned a few words. His main word was “Joe.” He probably had heard the
term “GI Joe” so often that, when asked his name for the hundredth time, he
said, “Joe,” and the moniker stuck.
The time came for
the Fifth Army to move on. Joe had become a fixture at the mess hall and had
won the hearts of the GIs, but they couldn’t take him with them to the next
deployment. He was classified as a displaced person. When the aid worker asked for
his name, he said, “Joe.” As for his last name, he had no idea. After an
uncomfortable period of silence, he saw the cook opening a can of black-eyed
peas. Joe had become fond of them as a staple of his new diet, so he said,
“Peas.”
The aid worker asked,
“Your last name is ‘Peas’?”
“Peas.”
And so it was. At
least that was one version of the story.
Chapter 1
“You guys don’t
know how to paint a house. You got to scrub, and I mean really clean the shit
off! You don’t do that, you just wastin’ you time! Then you scrape that sucker
plenty good! You don’t scrape and you just wastin’ you’ time! And then you
prima it.” He used the word prima,
instead of prime. “Then the paint. You got to use that good paint and none of
that shit you get at any hardware store. You gotta know you’ paint, man.”
All this was overheard
above the usual cacophony of the Waffle House. The customers in the surrounding
booths, the chatter of the counter traffic, and a jukebox with the usual
repertoire of country offerings provided a constant din that completed the
diner experience. The high-speed, enigmatic counter orders shouted by the
waitresses, and the clatter and motion of Freddy, the short-order cook,
completed the symphony of a morning at the King’s Mill Waffle House.
The atmosphere
was not one suitable for meditation, but it was great for a quick breakfast
with a genial ambience. And with the bonus of a little time to read the daily
paper, it was hard to beat. There was also something to be said for the old-fashioned
diner experience that allowed the patron to see the food prepared.
Dr. James King
and his wife, Betty, frequently slipped in for a Sunday breakfast before
hospital rounds. This morning the paper took second place to the bantam man
monopolizing the counter conversation. He had a dark, olive complexion; a pate
of slick black hair; and a pencil-thin mustache. He appeared to be of an
advanced age, but his animated speech and gestures suggested he was very
active. Doc and Betty had lived in town all their lives, but they didn’t know
him, and yet the small man was literally holding court with a cadre of local
laborers as though he was a well-known local craftsman. Doc knew that a couple
of these men had been lifelong painters, but they and the younger men listened
when the speaker harangued them as though he was the resident house-painting
expert.
“Lemme tell you ’bout
paint. You paint a house like you court a beautiful woman. You don’t think Joe
knows women? Lemme tell you guys. All the world’s best lovers, they’re Italian.
All the best painters, Italian. You think that may be an accident?” The little
fellow gestured widely with both hands, ending up with his thumbs inside his
suspenders.
“You see a
beautiful woman, you size her up. You got to find her blemishes. She may be bellissima outside, but she will have secrets. She
got a jealous lover, or even a husband, you gotta know.”
He looked over at
Betty, and she could have sworn that he winked at her. “That house you paint. It’s
a got problems, you gotta know ’bout it. It got dry rot or hidden wasp nest, it
can hurt a fella.
“That woman, you
got to court her; you offer her flowers and candy. Flatter her and tell her
she’s a so special to you! Give her all the attention she needs. She’ll say she
doesn’t want it, but never you mind. She’ll eat it up. Make her believe she’s a
you’ only one.
“That house, you
got to court it too. Clean it like it’s a you’ best friend. Give it attention;
take care of its special needs. It’ll pay off, guaranteed!
“That woman, now
you better close in on the next step. You got to get physical contact. Now you
guys know physical contact.” He looked around, giving his audience a knowing
look. “A li’l touch and a li’l kiss and you on you’ way. Now you get to know
her. She let her veil drop. You learn what she want or not want.”
Again, Betty
sensed the Italian’s eyes on her. She could not help but wonder if it was more
of a leer than an innocent glance. He was, after all, an Italian!
“That house, you
ready for the next step. You get more physical with that house. You place the
best prima you got. A simple kiss, a preparation for the real amore.” As the little Italian said this,
he seemed to blur the comparison of house painting and a romantic liaison.
“Gents, it’s a
now time to consummate the affair. Be gentle, be thorough.” He looked around to
see if the entire diner, even Betty, was listening. They were. Then he
continued.
“Take you’ time. You
be simpatico with her and she be kind to you. Remember, you ’mericans, you
always hurry. You take you’ time here. Smitty, none a’ dis wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am!
Make you’ time with you’ lady count!
“That house, now
it’s time to complete the act. Use you’ best paint. You no grab the brush like
a bat. You hold it gently; caress it like a fine lady’s hand. You do slow, so slow,
even passes, gentle strokes, feel the moist paint being stroked into the rough
wooden surface. Soon the surface becomes moist, pliable—sexy. The strokes, they
become more rhythmic, hypnotic—even erotic. You take you’ time, jus’ like with
that bellissima woman. You do a
slapdash job, you paint no good.”
As the fellow
warmed to the sensual aspects of house painting, he actually lost part of his
broken English.
“After that, you
stay. You call that what? Afterglow! You stay. You be kind. You stay. You no run
off and you see what it’s like to have real, real…”
“Intimacy.”
The little
Italian and everyone in the diner turned to see who had said that. Dr. King and
Betty looked around too, till they realized that the now red-faced Betty had
volunteered the statement.
Joe continued, “Buono, intimacy. That lady deserves you’
best. That house deserves you’ best. You got it painted, then you look at the
family. You see the look and feel of the family who live in the house. That’s a
so good!”
One of the
painters, Smitty, looked up from his third cup of coffee. “I need a cigarette.”
Abner, Smitty’s
partner, decided he’d better call his wife and see if she was ready for their
regular “date night.”
Dr. King and
Betty had lingered longer than usual over their coffee as the little Italian
and his band of painters entertained them. As Doc and his wife left the
restaurant, they heard Joe ask his audience, “Who is that guy?”
“Why, he’s my
doc,” said Smitty. “Fixed me up real good when I hurt my back last year.”
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