I Got a Feeling

I Got a Feeling…

Written by Kateb Shunnar

I don’t have everything I want, but Lord knows I’ve got everything I need, and that difference right there is the thing that’ll keep a man grounded when life’s trying to blow him over like an old tin roof in hurricane season. I’ve lived enough years to know wanting will have you pacing holes in your carpet, staring at somebody else’s plate, while needing will whisper to you, “hush now, you already got the bread and beans to make it through.” My grandmother used to hum that old tune, “I got a feeling, I got a feeling everything gonna be alright,” and when those words floated through her kitchen, carried on the smell of okra frying or red beans simmering, I believed her with my whole chest. That woman didn’t hum like she was passing time she hummed like she was keeping heaven and earth balanced, like one of those Geechee shouters from the Carolina coast, stomping out rhythm with her spirit. And when she hummed, you could rest easy, because you knew the week ahead was going to be wrapped in blessings, even if money was short or Uncle so-and-so had borrowed the lawnmower again without asking.

Now, I’ll tell you straight: I’m not a traditional writer. I don’t sit here trying to sound like a professor with his nose buried in the dictionary. My words got grease stains on them, porch-swing squeaks in them, and sometimes a laugh hiding in the middle just waiting to trip you. But I thank God for the small things, and I try to write the way life comes at me crooked, unexpected, and full of flavor. Like one summer day sitting on my grandmother’s porch at 2688 Jonquil Street. That porch wasn’t just wood and nails; it was the headquarters of frozen cup royalty, the very best in New Orleans. I ain’t bragging I’m just telling the gospel truth. We had flavors that made people forget their troubles: watermelon so sweet it made you smile before the spoon touched your tongue, grape that stained your lips purple like you’d been kissing the twilight, and pineapple that dripped summer down your chin. Folks lined up with quarters clutched in their palms, kids bouncing like they couldn’t wait another second, grown folks pretending they were just buying one for their kids but sneaking two for themselves.

One of those days, while we were waiting for customers, Granny turned to me, leaned back in her chair, and asked, “If you lose everything, will you still be thankful and grateful?” And me, quick with my words and slow with my thinking, blurted out, “O’ yes, Granny.” I said it fast, like I knew the answer. But she didn’t even crack a smile. She gave me that side-eye, the kind that could melt the paint off a wall and make you reconsider your whole life in two seconds flat. That look was saying, “Boy, don’t feed me no canned answer, I raised you better than that.” And right then I realized gratitude ain’t as easy as talking about it. Nobody wants to lose. Nobody wakes up hoping life strips them down to the studs. But sometimes you’ve got to lay things down to cross the mountain, and sometimes crossing that mountain means learning that “thank you” isn’t something you say with your lips it’s something you live with your whole body.

That side-eye from Granny has been chasing me ever since, and maybe that’s why my mind drifts into stories. Like the one I heard in my spirit one evening, a story that could’ve been one of hers if she’d had time to make it up while shelling peas. It’s about Big Mama Cypress and the Whispering River, and it goes something like this: once upon a time in a little town folks forgot to put on the map, there was a tree so wide it could shade a whole church choir in the summertime, and her roots dug so deep they were practically shaking hands with the bones of the earth. They called her Big Mama Cypress. Right beside her rolled the Whispering River, humming in the daytime and groaning at night like it carried every secret it had ever been told. Now, folks believed Big Mama and that river had a pact. She gave it shade, and the river carried away the troubles of whoever whispered their worries into its current. People would drive in from two towns over, kneel by the bank, and tell the river what was breaking their hearts. And by morning, they swore the heaviness had floated away.

But there’s always one hard-headed fool in every story, and in this one his name was Harlan. Harlan was greedier than a hog at the trough, and he wasn’t satisfied with the river taking away his burdens. No sir, he wanted it to give him back something shiny. So one night, he marched down with his pockets full of stones and shouted, “River! Take my troubles and bring me gold while you’re at it!” Well, the river didn’t take too kindly to his attitude. It swelled up, splashed so high it soaked him clean through, and folks swore it growled, “I carry burdens, not greed.” Poor Harlan went home dripping wet, pockets empty, and pride bruised. Big Mama Cypress rustled her leaves like she was laughing, and the people of that town never forgot the lesson: gratitude will lighten your shoulders, but greed will drown you quicker than a sack of rocks.

Now, that’s a made-up tale, but it’s true in its own way. Gratitude is like a cork it’ll float you no matter how high the river rises. Greed, though, will sink you faster than trying to swim with boots on. And if that ain’t the kind of story Granny would’ve slipped into a lesson, I don’t know what is.

Life’s funny, though, because gratitude often looks foolish when you’re living it. Like the summer I tried to impress a girl by carrying three frozen cups in one hand. I was halfway down the steps when splat! they slid, slipped, and baptized me in sticky rainbow juice. I stood there looking like a melted snow cone, and Granny didn’t even fuss. She just shook her head, laughed, and said, “Well, at least you cool now.” That’s gratitude with a side of humor. And humor is its own kind of gratitude, if you ask me it’s the spirit’s way of saying, “I’ll laugh so I don’t cry.”

That’s why Southerners keep a pocketful of jokes. My uncle, for instance, couldn’t resist his favorite one: “Why don’t Baptists believe in premarital sex? ‘Cause it might lead to dancing.” Granny would roll her eyes so hard they nearly left her head, but she’d still crack a smile. And sometimes that’s all you need one laugh, one hum, one silly moment to carry you through the heavy parts.

I figure life is like that old porch on Jonquil Street. Some days, you’re rich in laughter and quarters clinking in the jar. Other days, the ice melts, and nobody shows up, and you wonder if the sun’s just out there mocking you. But gratitude is the rocking chair on that porch. It don’t stop the ups and downs, but it gives you something steady to sway on while the world does what it does.

Over time, I realized gratitude isn’t just words you repeat like you’re in a choir thank you, thank you, thank you it’s how you carry yourself when the music cuts off. Gratitude is dancing barefoot when your shoes got holes in them. It’s humming when your words fail. It’s seasoning your life with joy even when the cupboard’s bare. Leave gratitude out, and life turns bland, no matter how much money or success you try to pile on your plate. But sprinkle it in, just a pinch, and suddenly everything sings.

So, maybe the right answer to Granny’s question wasn’t the quick “yes” I gave her. Maybe the right answer was to hum a song, tell a story, or even laugh at myself dripping in frozen cup juice. Maybe it’s not about promising to be grateful but about living grateful, day by day, through the mess and the miracles. And when I think back to her humming, I know she already knew the answer. I got a feeling… everything gonna be alright. And if it ain’t, well, I’ll still hum anyway.

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