Between these books and all the great short stories I'm already receiving for next month...........
I am EXCITED for 2012!
All books. All the Time. Established 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Looking Forward to a Fantastic 2012!
The Dew is taking a holiday vacation for the rest of the year, but take a look at this sampling of book reviews for January!
Between these books and all the great short stories I'm already receiving for next month...........
I am EXCITED for 2012!
Between these books and all the great short stories I'm already receiving for next month...........
I am EXCITED for 2012!
The Dew has had a fantastic year, with superb short stories and wonderful finds in books.
None of it would have been accomplished without you - the readers, writers and publishing houses.
I want to wish each and every one of you a wonderful holiday season!
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Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Merry Christmas, Mama
Merry Christmas, Mama
It was Christmas when two men in uniform walked smartly upon our front porch, rapped on the door, then told my mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, that her husband, my father, James Harold Dillahey, had been killed in action in a place I never heard of.
He was a good Marine and died a hero fighting for his country, they said, and left. I became the man of the house.
My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey, Mama's oldest son at the time. I was 12. My little brother, Peter Hamilton Dillahey was six. They said a twelve year old isn't old enough to be anything but a twelve year old, that he is too young to know what life is about. What they did not understand is a twelve year old grows up fast when he has to.
Mama figured it best we pack up and head back to Doaksville where we would be closer to some of my father's family. We came in on the bus a week before Christmas. At the bus station Mama made a phone call and we all settled down to wait for someone to pick us up.
The bald headed man behind the counter turned on his radio so we could all listen to Christmas carols. That worked for a while but it did not contribute to Mama's Christmas spirit. She loved Christmas and needed no prodding.
"Do you mind if I fix your decorations?" Mama said to the ticket master.
"No, mam, you go right ahead." Now, Mama was like that. Not only was she pretty she had a way with folks and she always made things brighter.
At that time, I saw nothing to be happy about. Deddy gone and his family in the middle of a cold night without a place to stay. It was his fault. Why would anybody leave a lady like my Mama and go off to fight in a place nobody ever heard of? As I saw it nobody cared if he or we lived or died. We were in a mess; Christmas carols and tinsel would not fix it.
"McQueen," Mama said, "would you help me, please," holding her hands out to me like I aught to be pleased to death to fix up a messy wall of tangled and tacky decorations. I looked at the ticket master then to Petey.
"Please," Mama repeated and I went to her. We took the mess down and rearranged it, singing along with the Christmas music. Petey tried to sing Jingle Bells but Mama shushed him while I frowned.
"There," Mama piped like a little girl, clapping her hands and standing back to look at the miracle she just created. The ticket master said it was beautiful and real Christmassy. And as always Petey just squealed.
"Now," Mama said, her voice gentle but commanding, "let's sing a
Christmas carol. Yes, let us sing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." With falling snow turning colors in the neon glow outside the window, we tried to sing along with her. We stopped and listened.
If there are angels, Mama was the leader. She never seemed to cry or look sad. She always found the sunshine.
"That was lovely," said the ticket master.
"Boy, my Mama can sing, huh?" Petey yelled.
I curled up in a folding seat and Mama sat next to me, Petey snuggled up like a puppy in her lap. She hummed. The ticket man nodded. The snow fell.
When I woke Mama and a big fat lady whispered by the door. Mama frowned and I knew something was wrong. Petey stirred and before I could stop him yelled "Wow, McQueen, there's Santa!" The fat lady's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Mama's look told me to get us ready to leave so I yanked on my jacket and bundled up Petey whispering in his ear to keep his mouth shut.
The driver complained all the way to the house. Mama sat straight between me and Petey in the back seat. She wiped Petey's always snotty face then took my hand. Her touch told me she was concerned, not afraid, concerned.
Mama sent us to the porch while she talked to the fat lady who stayed inside the big car. The grumbling driver got out and carried a big paper bag to the front porch and plopped it down by the door. He mumbled something about Christmas, slouched back to the car and they roared off into the swirling snow.
"Oh, we're going to have a wonderful time here," Mama said, clapping her hands, "McQueen, please build us a fire." To me it was an ugly old ratty house that nobody wanted to live in anymore. It stunk like old meals and burnt out fireplaces. "McQueen, please help me." And that's all it took.
I built a roaring fire from firewood stacked along the wall. Mama emptied the bag on the floor and by the firelight made us a decent supper from canned green beans, little round potatoes, and light bread, which she heated on the hearth. We topped it off with canned peaches.
Later, after we burrowed into the army blankets, Mama led us in Jingle Bells. The way she sang "Oh Holy Night," almost made me believe it. Thank God, she believed, I didn't and Petey didn't know any better.
During the night the cold woke me. I poked up the fire and added more wood. Mama had fallen asleep reading her Bible and it lay near her head. In the firelight she looked young but sad. Petey, snotty faced as usual, curled in his blanket near Mama's knees. I wondered if visions of sugaplums danced in his head. When I woke again it was morning, dark, and cold. Mama was already up in
the shabby kitchen boiling oatmeal.
"McQueen, hurry now, get Petey ready, school starts at nine."
I stoked the fire, put more wood on, and yanked a squalling Petey from his covers.
"Mama," I called back over Petey's howling, "there ain't three days left before time school lets out for the holidays. Ain't no need in going back now, is there?" After that last school I hoped I would never have to go back again.
"Isn't, young man. Why, the way you talk you'd think you'd never been to school. Now hurry up, please." And she started caroling again.
When I finally got Petey awake and into his knickers and half way dressed I pushed him into the kitchen where Mama sat at the spindly legged table, hands folded in prayer, waiting for us.
"McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey, would you say grace please." I glanced at Petey who stuck his tongue out then tried to pray like I meant it. But it was hard. I really didn't see anything to be thankful for. Here we were in a strange cold place, little money, no home and Christmas a week away. When I said amen and looked at her she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
"Now, see what you did, McQueen? You made Mama cry. I hope Santa Claus leaves you a bunch of switches." I started to tell him the truth about Santa but Mama lowered her eyes and I dropped it.
We ate the steaming oatmeal then got all bundled up. Ice and snow pushed around by a snappy wind had fallen most of the night. Out on the little flat front porch Mama laid down the law: "Now, McQueen, you know how important education is. We must not miss one single day if we can help it. You are in charge and it's your responsibility to get you and your brother to school. You go down this street then up it and the school is on your left. You can't miss it. Once there you must get both of you enrolled. Even though you only have three days left, you must get enrolled. Do you understand, McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey?"
"Yeah," grunted Petey, "unnerstan?" A hard hand squeeze shut him up.
"Yes, mam." At that time I did not understand. In the first place didn't like school. What good was it when what we needed was money to live on? What I needed was a job. Not a bunch of kids making fun of the brothers with the mile long names: McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey. Reading, writing, arithmetic. Bullshit. I was twelve years old and I could work and we could have a nice Christmas. I could buy Petey Santa Clause and a present for Mama. Maybe a new Bible or a
warm over coat. Mama kissed us both and we started down the hill.
Front porch lights glowed yellow in the gloom. The snow and ice had turned to a chilly fog. As we passed the houses Christmas tree lights twinkled through the windows. Petey got excited and tried to stop and gawk at every window but a good squeeze got him going again. Other bundled kids trudged up the hill and we followed them.
I thought about Mama and the gift I would not get her. But maybe I could get her something. Maybe there was something at the school. Like a drawing or a card they would let me make to take home. Little kid's stuff but it would do. It didn't take big things to make Mama happy; any show of love pleased her. I guess it was because she never thought of herself. Just me and Petey.
At the top of the hill, on the left, just like Mama said stood the school, a massive, Frankenstein looking place protected by an iron railed fence that looked like a hideout for King Arthur and his knights. Petey was dragging now and not responding to my hand crushing. Glad and relieved we passed through the large iron gate.
"What you doin' here?" I was digging Petey's head out of his scarf and not sure what I heard.
"You hear me, white boy, I said what you doing here? Ain't no white boys allowed in here."
Both my feet came off the ground and I hung in the air like a puppet.
"Put my brother down," Petey howled. When I finally stopped spinning I saw I was held at arm's length by the biggest kid I had ever seen. The other catcher's mitt fist he had drawn back aiming it at my face. White teeth flashed in his basketball sized dark head.
Laughing , he let me struggle, my arms flailing away. He shook me hard enough to knock both my eyes in to the same socket. All the while aiming that fist at my face. The more I flailed the more he laughed. I called him a son of a bitch but that just made him laugh harder.
When Petey bit him on the leg he decided to finish me. I spit at him as he drew back.
"Put him down." He dropped me and I hit the frozen ground hard my butt hurting, my mind on Petey.
"Petey, where are you?" I scrambled around looking for him.
"Over here, McQueen. Over here."
Another older boy, but not as big, had Petey by the hand. From my hands and knees I charged like a wild bull, head down, aiming to run over Petey's captor.
"No," Petey squealed just as I charged. Too late. The boy with the grace of a gifted bullfighter turned sideways still holding Petey's hand and I whizzed past him into the fence. It stopped me cold as I sprawled against it like a fly caught in a spider web. I slid down, crumpled, knocked cucoo.
"I told you no," said Petey at my side. "This is Bobby Joe and he's on our side."
"Come on, champ, let me help you up," Petey's new friend said, pulling at my elbow.
"I can help myself. I'm in the seventh grade and I don't need your help," I said, snatching my arm away and staggering to my feet. He just stood there smiling and holding Petey's hand.
"Turn my little brother loose. We don't need your help. Come here, Petey." Petey didn't move, just hung on to Bobby Joe's hand.
"Come on, guys, I'll show you the way to the principal's office, Her name is Miss Barnes," he said, turning toward the front door with Petey traipsing right along like nothing happened.
We went up the steps and into a hallway bustling with students. Some gawked at us. The big boy who had threatened to kill me stood by the front door with two other scowling buddies but they made no move toward us or said anything. Just growled and frowned. Petey took a new grip on Bobby Joe's hand and stuck his tongue out at the bullies as we started down the hall to the principle's office.
"Well, here it is, guys," Bobbie Joe said, "Miss Barnes will take care of you. And don't worry about those guys. They won't bother you." He pried his hand away from Petey's. "It's okay," Bobby Joe told him and tousled his hair. For a second he just stood there looking at us and that's when I got a good look at him.
About fifteen or sixteen he had a smile that said what he was. He wore green cordoroy knickers and dark knee socks and a gray sweater with the collar buttoned neatly at his neck. Perched almost squarely on his head was a Ben Hogan courdoray golf cap. He moved gracefully, spoke calmly, his voice deep and rich. Petey liked him.
"My name is Bobby Joe Bohanon," he said extending his hand to me. When I hesitated taking it Petey said "Shake his hand, McQueen, he's our friend."
"My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey," I said expecting him to laugh. He didn't. I took his hand.
"Glad to know you McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey." And he was gone.
We went inside the glass paneled room to a counter I could just barely see over. I plopped Petey down on a bench against the wall and went to the counter. I guess we made too much noise because as soon as I got there and looked over, a huge round head said "Shhhhhh." Then it's eyes grew wide and rolled toward the ceiling, nose up.
"Mam," I said, "We may be poor but we don't stink." Her eyes got bigger when she heard Petey say "Yeah, we don't stink. Mama gave us a spit bath."
"What do you want?"
"Mam, I want to register me and my brother for school."
"Sit," the lady said, leaning over the counter and looking down at us. "I'll get Miss Barnes, the principal."
"Merry Christmas," said Petey.
She disappeared and we sat back down with nothing to do but look around. About every two minutes I wiped Petey's nose. Christmas music drifted in from somewhere and it made me think hateful thoughts of not having a gift for Mama. I hoped they would kick us out then I could get a job to buy her and Petey a present. Still plenty of time before Christmas. Besides, I didn't like this school at all. Well, I didn't like any school, but
this one was the worst, it'd be like all the rest. Teaching one thing and doing another.
Then I noticed a manger scene with little figurines at the end of the counter near the wall. I stood up to get a closer look which made Petey squirm. So I held him up to see.
"Look, McQueen," he said, pointing, "there's a colored Jesus"
I wrestled him back to the bench and stuffed him onto it.
"Boy, what's wrong with you, Jesus ain't colored." Before he could answer the big head appeared over the counter again and said Miss Barnes would see us now. She motioned us around the counter and we followed her pointing finger to an office that had Principal on it. We stopped at the door and she motioned for me to knock. I wiped Petey's nose again and patted down my hair. I guess the lady still thought we stunk because she stood way back from us.
"Come in," a voice called and I did, dragging Petey who kept looking back for Bobby Joe. I guess we did look like a pair of ragamuffins.
A tall skinny lady in a red dress stood behind a great big desk. Her eyes bulged behind her glasses. She looked like all the principals I had seen except she didn't have a 3 foot ruler in her hand. I looked around for it but there was none. I had already made up my mind that she or anybody else in that school hadn't earned the right to whip us yet. So she'd best leave the ruler be.
"May I help you, gentlemen?"
I looked at myself, brushed my hair down then Petey's. She didn't talk loud like those other principals.
"Mam, my name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey. My mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, sent me to register us for school. I know there's only three days left before the holidays but my mama says education is important and we should go to school every chance we get. It's okay with me if you don't want us. Then I can go and get a job so I can buy Mama and Petey a Christmas present. That's more important to me than going to school especially in a place
that doesn't want us in the first place...we don't stink...."
"Please, Mister Dillahey, sit down." We shuffled backwards into chairs along the wall. Petey had trouble getting on his so I yanked him by the arms and pulled him up. He howled like I was killing him. The lady principal walked from around the desk her hands folded and waited for me to get us situated.
She smiled at Petey and he smiled back, trying not to use the back of his hand as a handkerchief.
"Is Jesus colored?" Petey said. Sometimes he made a whole lot of sense or could say things that made you think. He wasn't really as dumb as you thought he was. I waited for her answer.
"I don't know, Mister Peter Hamilton Dillahey. I guess he's what color you want him to be." That satisfied Petey and he smiled. Then he turned to me.
"She's nice, McQueen. Do you think you could be nice back?"
I threatened Petey with my eyes but he kept smiling waiting for me to answer. I felt Miss Barnes eyes on me and when I looked up at her they were not principal eyes.
"Yes, Petey, I'll be nice back but I don't take orders from a snot nosed kid like you. I'll be nice because I want to. Not because you tell me to." But that little rat just kept on smiling.
When Miss Barnes got finished with us she walked us back to the outer office. Bobby Joe sat on the bench.
"We hope you both enjoy your stay with us," she said. "This is Bobby Joe Bohannon. He'll escort you to your classrooms."
Petey ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. Oh, no, I thought, snotty hands and all. She let him hug her then tilted his head back and wiped his nose with a tissue.
"See, McQueen, she don't hurt like you do." Then he strutted over to Bobby Joe, took his hand and stood waiting for me. And I could just hear that little rat saying "be nice, McQueen, be nice."
Since I was now the head of the Dillahey house I would have to act like a man. A man doesn't cry or whimper or beg. He looks you straight in the eye as he shakes your hand and thanks you for what you need thanking for. If he doesn't get what he wants he takes it like a man and goes on. He keeps on keeping on.
I marched straight to her and looked up into her eyes. "Thank you, Mam," I said, extending my hand. She shook it and said "You are welcome, Mister McQueen Hamilton Dillahey."
I had done my duty. I did like mama wanted. Petey and I'd spend the next three days in school like she wanted. Maybe that could be a Christmas present. But it wouldn't be much under the tree.
So Petey and I spent the next three days at Church Street School. We had a good time and no one, not even Big Banks, was mean to us. Bobbie Joe Bohannon seemed to be every where. And every chance he could Petey had him by the hand.
On the last day before the Christmas holidays the school held its annual Christmas play. Bobby Joe played Santa and read the Night Before Christmas. When he finished all the kids clapped and yelled as he went to Petey, took his hand and led him to the tall Christmas tree in the hall. He whispered to Petey who smiled like I'd never seen him do before. They stood holding hands while a pretty girl sang O Holy Night. I almost cried.
As soon as the last note ended Petey scrambled among the gifts under the tree, grabbed one, and beaming like a Carolina moon, handed it to Bobby Joe who called out the name it belonged to. They had handed out maybe ten gifts when it hit me that there would be no gift for me or Petey. I wasn't concerned about me but it would break Petey's heart. How could I, the man of the house, let this happen to a little guy who had never hurt
anyone. God, I wished I had told him the truth about Santa Claus a long time ago. Too late now. And Mama, no present for Mama.
"From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
By this time wrappings filled the air and it was hard to hear over the racket. Again "From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
I heard it this time and so did Petey who stopped dead and stared at Bobby Joe. Oh, no, I thought, he's going to bawl. But he just stood there, smiling, then dropped his chin. Bobby Joe went to him, bent down and gently nudged the little guy's chin up.
"Open it, Petey, it's from Santa to you."
Another boy about Petey's age took over Petey's job while he tore open the present. He pulled out a matching two gun set of Hopalong Cassidy cap busters. Bobby Joe strapped them on Petey who was jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. I almost said "Thank you, Lord." But what about Mama?
I was so happy for Petey I didn't feel the big hand pressing down on my shoulder. Big Banks.
"Merry Christmas, white boy," he whispered patting my shoulder and letting a small slender package slide down into my lap. I opened it and found a brand new Barlow knife. I looked for Big Banks but he was gone. Bobby Joe smiled and winked at me.
Mama was so happy when I told her about our last day at school.
"You are a wonderful gift from God, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey" she said that Christmas Eve as we bunched around that stinky old fire place roasting marsh mellows. "My son, you are a blessing."
"Yeah, McQueen, you ain't mean all the time," Petey cut in, drawing a bead on me with his Hopalongs. My Barlow felt solid, substantial, in my pocket and I fingered it just to make sure it was real. It was.
Just before we settled down for the night Mama read us the Christmas story from the gospel of Saint Luke, something she did every Christmas Eve. I could never get beyond the thees and thous but Mama believed it.Every word. You could see the joy busting out of her.
My heart ached for Mama. I did not want to do it but when I got around my selfishness I made up my mind to go out tomorrow, sell my Barlow to get her a present. After all, I'd had it for a whole day and the man of the house can't let childish feelings get in the way of doing his duty. It would be late coming but at least she'd have the present she deserved.
All through the night I worried and wondered why Petey and I had presents but she didn't. The one person in the world who really deserved something, got nothing. I even tried praying for the first time in my life. I mean honest to goodness praying but I got no answer. Several times I got up and put wood on the fire.
At least I could see she stayed warm.
Her pretty face softened in the firelight. I fixed the army blanket up under her chin and lay down close and put my face almost to hers. A little smile kept coming and going on her young lips. Her gentle breath kissed my cheek. Everything about her gentle, kind. I watched her for a while. She seemed so happy and peaceful and I tried to figure out why. I stayed that way until I had to stoke the fire again.
Petey squirmed, searching for his Hopalongs. I helped him find them and he went back to sleep, smiling.
Just before dawn the truth came to me. Mama didn't want presents. She had rather have a gift. I guess I was growing up because suddenly, deep into that long ago Christmas Eve, I realized the difference. A present is of the world. A gift is of love. Though presents are given with love, gifts are love, come from the heart, and give a part of oneself to another. I had given her the most beautiful gift possible: doing what she asked and trusted me to do. I had given myself, my love to her.
As Christmas morning slipped in around the faded shades I leaned over and kissed her.
"Merry Christmas, Mama."
"Merry Christmas, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey...my son."
End
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Rocky Rutherford
Silver Valley, North Caroilina
It was Christmas when two men in uniform walked smartly upon our front porch, rapped on the door, then told my mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, that her husband, my father, James Harold Dillahey, had been killed in action in a place I never heard of.
He was a good Marine and died a hero fighting for his country, they said, and left. I became the man of the house.
My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey, Mama's oldest son at the time. I was 12. My little brother, Peter Hamilton Dillahey was six. They said a twelve year old isn't old enough to be anything but a twelve year old, that he is too young to know what life is about. What they did not understand is a twelve year old grows up fast when he has to.
Mama figured it best we pack up and head back to Doaksville where we would be closer to some of my father's family. We came in on the bus a week before Christmas. At the bus station Mama made a phone call and we all settled down to wait for someone to pick us up.
The bald headed man behind the counter turned on his radio so we could all listen to Christmas carols. That worked for a while but it did not contribute to Mama's Christmas spirit. She loved Christmas and needed no prodding.
"Do you mind if I fix your decorations?" Mama said to the ticket master.
"No, mam, you go right ahead." Now, Mama was like that. Not only was she pretty she had a way with folks and she always made things brighter.
At that time, I saw nothing to be happy about. Deddy gone and his family in the middle of a cold night without a place to stay. It was his fault. Why would anybody leave a lady like my Mama and go off to fight in a place nobody ever heard of? As I saw it nobody cared if he or we lived or died. We were in a mess; Christmas carols and tinsel would not fix it.
"McQueen," Mama said, "would you help me, please," holding her hands out to me like I aught to be pleased to death to fix up a messy wall of tangled and tacky decorations. I looked at the ticket master then to Petey.
"Please," Mama repeated and I went to her. We took the mess down and rearranged it, singing along with the Christmas music. Petey tried to sing Jingle Bells but Mama shushed him while I frowned.
"There," Mama piped like a little girl, clapping her hands and standing back to look at the miracle she just created. The ticket master said it was beautiful and real Christmassy. And as always Petey just squealed.
"Now," Mama said, her voice gentle but commanding, "let's sing a
Christmas carol. Yes, let us sing "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." With falling snow turning colors in the neon glow outside the window, we tried to sing along with her. We stopped and listened.
If there are angels, Mama was the leader. She never seemed to cry or look sad. She always found the sunshine.
"That was lovely," said the ticket master.
"Boy, my Mama can sing, huh?" Petey yelled.
I curled up in a folding seat and Mama sat next to me, Petey snuggled up like a puppy in her lap. She hummed. The ticket man nodded. The snow fell.
When I woke Mama and a big fat lady whispered by the door. Mama frowned and I knew something was wrong. Petey stirred and before I could stop him yelled "Wow, McQueen, there's Santa!" The fat lady's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Mama's look told me to get us ready to leave so I yanked on my jacket and bundled up Petey whispering in his ear to keep his mouth shut.
The driver complained all the way to the house. Mama sat straight between me and Petey in the back seat. She wiped Petey's always snotty face then took my hand. Her touch told me she was concerned, not afraid, concerned.
Mama sent us to the porch while she talked to the fat lady who stayed inside the big car. The grumbling driver got out and carried a big paper bag to the front porch and plopped it down by the door. He mumbled something about Christmas, slouched back to the car and they roared off into the swirling snow.
"Oh, we're going to have a wonderful time here," Mama said, clapping her hands, "McQueen, please build us a fire." To me it was an ugly old ratty house that nobody wanted to live in anymore. It stunk like old meals and burnt out fireplaces. "McQueen, please help me." And that's all it took.
I built a roaring fire from firewood stacked along the wall. Mama emptied the bag on the floor and by the firelight made us a decent supper from canned green beans, little round potatoes, and light bread, which she heated on the hearth. We topped it off with canned peaches.
Later, after we burrowed into the army blankets, Mama led us in Jingle Bells. The way she sang "Oh Holy Night," almost made me believe it. Thank God, she believed, I didn't and Petey didn't know any better.
During the night the cold woke me. I poked up the fire and added more wood. Mama had fallen asleep reading her Bible and it lay near her head. In the firelight she looked young but sad. Petey, snotty faced as usual, curled in his blanket near Mama's knees. I wondered if visions of sugaplums danced in his head. When I woke again it was morning, dark, and cold. Mama was already up in
the shabby kitchen boiling oatmeal.
"McQueen, hurry now, get Petey ready, school starts at nine."
I stoked the fire, put more wood on, and yanked a squalling Petey from his covers.
"Mama," I called back over Petey's howling, "there ain't three days left before time school lets out for the holidays. Ain't no need in going back now, is there?" After that last school I hoped I would never have to go back again.
"Isn't, young man. Why, the way you talk you'd think you'd never been to school. Now hurry up, please." And she started caroling again.
When I finally got Petey awake and into his knickers and half way dressed I pushed him into the kitchen where Mama sat at the spindly legged table, hands folded in prayer, waiting for us.
"McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey, would you say grace please." I glanced at Petey who stuck his tongue out then tried to pray like I meant it. But it was hard. I really didn't see anything to be thankful for. Here we were in a strange cold place, little money, no home and Christmas a week away. When I said amen and looked at her she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
"Now, see what you did, McQueen? You made Mama cry. I hope Santa Claus leaves you a bunch of switches." I started to tell him the truth about Santa but Mama lowered her eyes and I dropped it.
We ate the steaming oatmeal then got all bundled up. Ice and snow pushed around by a snappy wind had fallen most of the night. Out on the little flat front porch Mama laid down the law: "Now, McQueen, you know how important education is. We must not miss one single day if we can help it. You are in charge and it's your responsibility to get you and your brother to school. You go down this street then up it and the school is on your left. You can't miss it. Once there you must get both of you enrolled. Even though you only have three days left, you must get enrolled. Do you understand, McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey?"
"Yeah," grunted Petey, "unnerstan?" A hard hand squeeze shut him up.
"Yes, mam." At that time I did not understand. In the first place didn't like school. What good was it when what we needed was money to live on? What I needed was a job. Not a bunch of kids making fun of the brothers with the mile long names: McQueen Hamiliton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey. Reading, writing, arithmetic. Bullshit. I was twelve years old and I could work and we could have a nice Christmas. I could buy Petey Santa Clause and a present for Mama. Maybe a new Bible or a
warm over coat. Mama kissed us both and we started down the hill.
Front porch lights glowed yellow in the gloom. The snow and ice had turned to a chilly fog. As we passed the houses Christmas tree lights twinkled through the windows. Petey got excited and tried to stop and gawk at every window but a good squeeze got him going again. Other bundled kids trudged up the hill and we followed them.
I thought about Mama and the gift I would not get her. But maybe I could get her something. Maybe there was something at the school. Like a drawing or a card they would let me make to take home. Little kid's stuff but it would do. It didn't take big things to make Mama happy; any show of love pleased her. I guess it was because she never thought of herself. Just me and Petey.
At the top of the hill, on the left, just like Mama said stood the school, a massive, Frankenstein looking place protected by an iron railed fence that looked like a hideout for King Arthur and his knights. Petey was dragging now and not responding to my hand crushing. Glad and relieved we passed through the large iron gate.
"What you doin' here?" I was digging Petey's head out of his scarf and not sure what I heard.
"You hear me, white boy, I said what you doing here? Ain't no white boys allowed in here."
Both my feet came off the ground and I hung in the air like a puppet.
"Put my brother down," Petey howled. When I finally stopped spinning I saw I was held at arm's length by the biggest kid I had ever seen. The other catcher's mitt fist he had drawn back aiming it at my face. White teeth flashed in his basketball sized dark head.
Laughing , he let me struggle, my arms flailing away. He shook me hard enough to knock both my eyes in to the same socket. All the while aiming that fist at my face. The more I flailed the more he laughed. I called him a son of a bitch but that just made him laugh harder.
When Petey bit him on the leg he decided to finish me. I spit at him as he drew back.
"Put him down." He dropped me and I hit the frozen ground hard my butt hurting, my mind on Petey.
"Petey, where are you?" I scrambled around looking for him.
"Over here, McQueen. Over here."
Another older boy, but not as big, had Petey by the hand. From my hands and knees I charged like a wild bull, head down, aiming to run over Petey's captor.
"No," Petey squealed just as I charged. Too late. The boy with the grace of a gifted bullfighter turned sideways still holding Petey's hand and I whizzed past him into the fence. It stopped me cold as I sprawled against it like a fly caught in a spider web. I slid down, crumpled, knocked cucoo.
"I told you no," said Petey at my side. "This is Bobby Joe and he's on our side."
"Come on, champ, let me help you up," Petey's new friend said, pulling at my elbow.
"I can help myself. I'm in the seventh grade and I don't need your help," I said, snatching my arm away and staggering to my feet. He just stood there smiling and holding Petey's hand.
"Turn my little brother loose. We don't need your help. Come here, Petey." Petey didn't move, just hung on to Bobby Joe's hand.
"Come on, guys, I'll show you the way to the principal's office, Her name is Miss Barnes," he said, turning toward the front door with Petey traipsing right along like nothing happened.
We went up the steps and into a hallway bustling with students. Some gawked at us. The big boy who had threatened to kill me stood by the front door with two other scowling buddies but they made no move toward us or said anything. Just growled and frowned. Petey took a new grip on Bobby Joe's hand and stuck his tongue out at the bullies as we started down the hall to the principle's office.
"Well, here it is, guys," Bobbie Joe said, "Miss Barnes will take care of you. And don't worry about those guys. They won't bother you." He pried his hand away from Petey's. "It's okay," Bobby Joe told him and tousled his hair. For a second he just stood there looking at us and that's when I got a good look at him.
About fifteen or sixteen he had a smile that said what he was. He wore green cordoroy knickers and dark knee socks and a gray sweater with the collar buttoned neatly at his neck. Perched almost squarely on his head was a Ben Hogan courdoray golf cap. He moved gracefully, spoke calmly, his voice deep and rich. Petey liked him.
"My name is Bobby Joe Bohanon," he said extending his hand to me. When I hesitated taking it Petey said "Shake his hand, McQueen, he's our friend."
"My name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey," I said expecting him to laugh. He didn't. I took his hand.
"Glad to know you McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and Peter Hamilton Dillahey." And he was gone.
We went inside the glass paneled room to a counter I could just barely see over. I plopped Petey down on a bench against the wall and went to the counter. I guess we made too much noise because as soon as I got there and looked over, a huge round head said "Shhhhhh." Then it's eyes grew wide and rolled toward the ceiling, nose up.
"Mam," I said, "We may be poor but we don't stink." Her eyes got bigger when she heard Petey say "Yeah, we don't stink. Mama gave us a spit bath."
"What do you want?"
"Mam, I want to register me and my brother for school."
"Sit," the lady said, leaning over the counter and looking down at us. "I'll get Miss Barnes, the principal."
"Merry Christmas," said Petey.
She disappeared and we sat back down with nothing to do but look around. About every two minutes I wiped Petey's nose. Christmas music drifted in from somewhere and it made me think hateful thoughts of not having a gift for Mama. I hoped they would kick us out then I could get a job to buy her and Petey a present. Still plenty of time before Christmas. Besides, I didn't like this school at all. Well, I didn't like any school, but
this one was the worst, it'd be like all the rest. Teaching one thing and doing another.
Then I noticed a manger scene with little figurines at the end of the counter near the wall. I stood up to get a closer look which made Petey squirm. So I held him up to see.
"Look, McQueen," he said, pointing, "there's a colored Jesus"
I wrestled him back to the bench and stuffed him onto it.
"Boy, what's wrong with you, Jesus ain't colored." Before he could answer the big head appeared over the counter again and said Miss Barnes would see us now. She motioned us around the counter and we followed her pointing finger to an office that had Principal on it. We stopped at the door and she motioned for me to knock. I wiped Petey's nose again and patted down my hair. I guess the lady still thought we stunk because she stood way back from us.
"Come in," a voice called and I did, dragging Petey who kept looking back for Bobby Joe. I guess we did look like a pair of ragamuffins.
A tall skinny lady in a red dress stood behind a great big desk. Her eyes bulged behind her glasses. She looked like all the principals I had seen except she didn't have a 3 foot ruler in her hand. I looked around for it but there was none. I had already made up my mind that she or anybody else in that school hadn't earned the right to whip us yet. So she'd best leave the ruler be.
"May I help you, gentlemen?"
I looked at myself, brushed my hair down then Petey's. She didn't talk loud like those other principals.
"Mam, my name is McQueen Hamilton Dillahey and this is my brother Peter Hamilton Dillahey. My mama, Carrie Mae Hamilton Dillahey, sent me to register us for school. I know there's only three days left before the holidays but my mama says education is important and we should go to school every chance we get. It's okay with me if you don't want us. Then I can go and get a job so I can buy Mama and Petey a Christmas present. That's more important to me than going to school especially in a place
that doesn't want us in the first place...we don't stink...."
"Please, Mister Dillahey, sit down." We shuffled backwards into chairs along the wall. Petey had trouble getting on his so I yanked him by the arms and pulled him up. He howled like I was killing him. The lady principal walked from around the desk her hands folded and waited for me to get us situated.
She smiled at Petey and he smiled back, trying not to use the back of his hand as a handkerchief.
"Is Jesus colored?" Petey said. Sometimes he made a whole lot of sense or could say things that made you think. He wasn't really as dumb as you thought he was. I waited for her answer.
"I don't know, Mister Peter Hamilton Dillahey. I guess he's what color you want him to be." That satisfied Petey and he smiled. Then he turned to me.
"She's nice, McQueen. Do you think you could be nice back?"
I threatened Petey with my eyes but he kept smiling waiting for me to answer. I felt Miss Barnes eyes on me and when I looked up at her they were not principal eyes.
"Yes, Petey, I'll be nice back but I don't take orders from a snot nosed kid like you. I'll be nice because I want to. Not because you tell me to." But that little rat just kept on smiling.
When Miss Barnes got finished with us she walked us back to the outer office. Bobby Joe sat on the bench.
"We hope you both enjoy your stay with us," she said. "This is Bobby Joe Bohannon. He'll escort you to your classrooms."
Petey ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. Oh, no, I thought, snotty hands and all. She let him hug her then tilted his head back and wiped his nose with a tissue.
"See, McQueen, she don't hurt like you do." Then he strutted over to Bobby Joe, took his hand and stood waiting for me. And I could just hear that little rat saying "be nice, McQueen, be nice."
Since I was now the head of the Dillahey house I would have to act like a man. A man doesn't cry or whimper or beg. He looks you straight in the eye as he shakes your hand and thanks you for what you need thanking for. If he doesn't get what he wants he takes it like a man and goes on. He keeps on keeping on.
I marched straight to her and looked up into her eyes. "Thank you, Mam," I said, extending my hand. She shook it and said "You are welcome, Mister McQueen Hamilton Dillahey."
I had done my duty. I did like mama wanted. Petey and I'd spend the next three days in school like she wanted. Maybe that could be a Christmas present. But it wouldn't be much under the tree.
So Petey and I spent the next three days at Church Street School. We had a good time and no one, not even Big Banks, was mean to us. Bobbie Joe Bohannon seemed to be every where. And every chance he could Petey had him by the hand.
On the last day before the Christmas holidays the school held its annual Christmas play. Bobby Joe played Santa and read the Night Before Christmas. When he finished all the kids clapped and yelled as he went to Petey, took his hand and led him to the tall Christmas tree in the hall. He whispered to Petey who smiled like I'd never seen him do before. They stood holding hands while a pretty girl sang O Holy Night. I almost cried.
As soon as the last note ended Petey scrambled among the gifts under the tree, grabbed one, and beaming like a Carolina moon, handed it to Bobby Joe who called out the name it belonged to. They had handed out maybe ten gifts when it hit me that there would be no gift for me or Petey. I wasn't concerned about me but it would break Petey's heart. How could I, the man of the house, let this happen to a little guy who had never hurt
anyone. God, I wished I had told him the truth about Santa Claus a long time ago. Too late now. And Mama, no present for Mama.
"From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
By this time wrappings filled the air and it was hard to hear over the racket. Again "From Santa to Peter Hamilton Dillahey!"
I heard it this time and so did Petey who stopped dead and stared at Bobby Joe. Oh, no, I thought, he's going to bawl. But he just stood there, smiling, then dropped his chin. Bobby Joe went to him, bent down and gently nudged the little guy's chin up.
"Open it, Petey, it's from Santa to you."
Another boy about Petey's age took over Petey's job while he tore open the present. He pulled out a matching two gun set of Hopalong Cassidy cap busters. Bobby Joe strapped them on Petey who was jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. I almost said "Thank you, Lord." But what about Mama?
I was so happy for Petey I didn't feel the big hand pressing down on my shoulder. Big Banks.
"Merry Christmas, white boy," he whispered patting my shoulder and letting a small slender package slide down into my lap. I opened it and found a brand new Barlow knife. I looked for Big Banks but he was gone. Bobby Joe smiled and winked at me.
Mama was so happy when I told her about our last day at school.
"You are a wonderful gift from God, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey" she said that Christmas Eve as we bunched around that stinky old fire place roasting marsh mellows. "My son, you are a blessing."
"Yeah, McQueen, you ain't mean all the time," Petey cut in, drawing a bead on me with his Hopalongs. My Barlow felt solid, substantial, in my pocket and I fingered it just to make sure it was real. It was.
Just before we settled down for the night Mama read us the Christmas story from the gospel of Saint Luke, something she did every Christmas Eve. I could never get beyond the thees and thous but Mama believed it.Every word. You could see the joy busting out of her.
My heart ached for Mama. I did not want to do it but when I got around my selfishness I made up my mind to go out tomorrow, sell my Barlow to get her a present. After all, I'd had it for a whole day and the man of the house can't let childish feelings get in the way of doing his duty. It would be late coming but at least she'd have the present she deserved.
All through the night I worried and wondered why Petey and I had presents but she didn't. The one person in the world who really deserved something, got nothing. I even tried praying for the first time in my life. I mean honest to goodness praying but I got no answer. Several times I got up and put wood on the fire.
At least I could see she stayed warm.
Her pretty face softened in the firelight. I fixed the army blanket up under her chin and lay down close and put my face almost to hers. A little smile kept coming and going on her young lips. Her gentle breath kissed my cheek. Everything about her gentle, kind. I watched her for a while. She seemed so happy and peaceful and I tried to figure out why. I stayed that way until I had to stoke the fire again.
Petey squirmed, searching for his Hopalongs. I helped him find them and he went back to sleep, smiling.
Just before dawn the truth came to me. Mama didn't want presents. She had rather have a gift. I guess I was growing up because suddenly, deep into that long ago Christmas Eve, I realized the difference. A present is of the world. A gift is of love. Though presents are given with love, gifts are love, come from the heart, and give a part of oneself to another. I had given her the most beautiful gift possible: doing what she asked and trusted me to do. I had given myself, my love to her.
As Christmas morning slipped in around the faded shades I leaned over and kissed her.
"Merry Christmas, Mama."
"Merry Christmas, McQueen Hamilton Dillahey...my son."
End
_____________________________
Rocky Rutherford
Silver Valley, North Caroilina
Monday, December 19, 2011
Letters From The Barn: The Holiday Holidaze
Letters From The Barn: The Holiday Holidaze
I was doing the holiday thing recently. Being all homey and baking. Boy, the kitchen smelled like nutmeg and my
stomach was full of warm food. My house was bright with Christmas cheer. I had made a whole set, if that's what
you'd call them, of cookie ornaments. Bells, houses, and snowmen. Even a few stars.
I strung them on the tree, some dangling as ornaments, others more as a garland. So proud I was. True my tree is
artificial, but I can see so many pine trees outside my front door, it sort of makes up for it.
In the meantime, I talked to a lady who had stopped putting up her tree years ago. Her cat had started sleeping in
the branches and would knock it over clean to the floor. Being more of a dog person, I thought, now THAT'S a cat
for you.
I hung the ornaments on the tree and went about my business for the day. Hauling hay outside, putting away things
inside. When I came back to the living room to have a cup of tea and rest, I discovered that my dog might not need
to eat for oh, another week or so.
She had not climbed the tree. She's too short for that. She was not sleeping in the branches, she prefers a
pillow, thank-you very much. She had, however, eaten as many cookie decorations as she could reach. And apparently
she can reach a lot further than you might think. Maybe Santa brought her stilts as an early gift. If she can
reach that far, I might have her putting new shingles on the roof come spring. Check back with me then and find
out.
I was doing the holiday thing recently. Being all homey and baking. Boy, the kitchen smelled like nutmeg and my
stomach was full of warm food. My house was bright with Christmas cheer. I had made a whole set, if that's what
you'd call them, of cookie ornaments. Bells, houses, and snowmen. Even a few stars.
I strung them on the tree, some dangling as ornaments, others more as a garland. So proud I was. True my tree is
artificial, but I can see so many pine trees outside my front door, it sort of makes up for it.
In the meantime, I talked to a lady who had stopped putting up her tree years ago. Her cat had started sleeping in
the branches and would knock it over clean to the floor. Being more of a dog person, I thought, now THAT'S a cat
for you.
I hung the ornaments on the tree and went about my business for the day. Hauling hay outside, putting away things
inside. When I came back to the living room to have a cup of tea and rest, I discovered that my dog might not need
to eat for oh, another week or so.
She had not climbed the tree. She's too short for that. She was not sleeping in the branches, she prefers a
pillow, thank-you very much. She had, however, eaten as many cookie decorations as she could reach. And apparently
she can reach a lot further than you might think. Maybe Santa brought her stilts as an early gift. If she can
reach that far, I might have her putting new shingles on the roof come spring. Check back with me then and find
out.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
The Bitter Taste of Pudding
The Bitter Taste of Pudding
Olusola Akinwale
The thud floated up through the walls of their bedroom past the dimly-lit hallway to our bedroom. I knew it was Dad’s wicked fist landing on Mum like a bag of cement, but I didn’t know which part of her body he’d hit. I was certain to know the next morning.
We had just gone to bed. My little sister, Abigail, was curled up next to me, asleep. The Sony CD player in our room was on. I’d been listening to my favorite Friday-night phone-in program on Cool FM. The topic of the night was, “Why Marriages Collapse.” I got off the bed and reduced the volume of the CD player. The thud was louder this time. I heard Dad’s grunting and pictured him overpowering Mum, his chest expanding with rage. Mum gave out mournful plea. She was crying in a low voice. She didn’t want our neighbors to hear her cry, and so suffered in silence. I could envision tears on her face, and imagined her cowering as she did when Dad became aggressive with her.
No matter how often I saw her cowering like that, I was always shocked to see it. She was such a tall, slim woman and normally walked with a proud gait, like a supermodel. She was not designed to cower. I shared her oval face and slim frame.
Dad was a tall and big man. He had eyes that glowed like embers in a hearth, and he walked with a slight stoop. He could wrap all of us in one arm. Mum said the huskiness of his voice had first attracted her to him. Abby looked like him. Maybe that was the reason he called her his “Princess,” which made her blush with pride and made me jealous.
Abby woke up, sniffled and started to cry. She must have heard the thud in her sleep, and knew that Dad was beating Mum again. We heard Mum squeal in pain. I shivered. Abigail cried more loudly, and I drew her close to myself to muffle the sound. I didn’t want the neighbors to hear her, because she cried like a refugee girl who had just lost her mother. She pulled herself free and went to the door where she continued to moan, stamping her feet on the floor, hitting the door with her hands. There was nothing we could do. We couldn’t go out to plead for Mum because Dad had locked our door from outside. He didn’t want her to escape into our room, like she used to do.
When Abby began to whine like a dog in a snare, I went to the CD player and turned it up again, to drown out her tears. I sat on the bed again and, for a few moments, watched her mouth droop, spoiling her soft, pretty face. When I beckoned to her, holding out my hands, she came to me. I held her close, her wet face pressing on my shoulder. I told her not to cry again, and that if she stopped crying I would buy yogurt for her in the morning and tune the TV to a channel that showed her favorite cartoon, Barney and Friends. She stopped crying. When I tucked her in again, she said she wanted to go to Mum.
When the abuse first started, Mum would act as if nothing had happened the night before, but her swollen lips or forehead would betray her. On occasions I asked her how she came by the cuts and bruises, she told me she’d been injured in the night. I wondered how that was possible in her bed.
Soon I understood what had been happening, what she had been enduring all the while. One night she ran out of their bedroom into ours, slamming the door and locking it. I woke up and saw her sitting on the floor. Her head was in her hands and her braids fell over her face like our silky window curtain. Dad was cursing from outside, turning the door knob violently, and threatening to break the door open if Mum didn’t open it. Abby too had woken up. She started to cry when she saw Mum on the floor, in tears. We both left the bed and went to Mum. Her mouth was bleeding, and tears mixed with sweat on her face.
That night, I understood why Mum had been buying a new nightie almost every day. The pink nightie on her had been torn and stained with blood. She had bought it two days before. The nightie she’d bought before that was blue.
Mum had told me it wasn’t a sin to have many nighties when I asked her why she bought a new nightie frequently. She had said I wasn’t the one to decide what to wear for her when I said the new nightie shouldn’t stop her from wearing the ones she had had. I had stopped questioning her about the nighties when she said she would wear the old ones whenever she felt like it.
Now, she wiped away the blood on her mouth with her nightie and then reached for us, hugging us close. “My Mummy, don’t cry, don’t cry,” my three-year-old sister was saying.
“Dad had been beating you,” I blurted over her shoulder, tears filling my eyes.
“Who beat you, my Mummy? Let’s go and tell my Daddy,” Abigail whimpered.
“You buy a new nightie whenever dad tears the ones you have,” I said, my tears pouring down onto her back. Dad yelled again. Mum flinched. We pulled back from her embrace. “My daddy, my mummy is crying,” Abigail was telling Dad. But he didn’t listen; he kept threatening to break the door open.
“You think you have escaped? You think you have escaped, bitch? You’ll see hell. You had better not come out tomorrow morning or else . . .” He halted and left. Mum stood up, holding up her nightie and moved to the bed. She’d walked with a slight limp the past three days, though she tried not to let people know. As she sat on the bed, grimacing in pain, she confessed that Dad had kicked her in her thighs repeatedly.
“Has Dad become a bad man?” I asked, my tear-filled eyes boring into hers. She looked me up and down. I looked down at myself and saw a bloodstain on my nightie. “Dad is now a bad man,” I said.
“He loves us,” she said.
“He doesn’t love us. If he loved us, he wouldn’t beat you and tear your nightie. He doesn’t take us to school anymore.”
“But he once loved us, Yemisi,” she said, kneading her thighs with the balm. “He used to take you to school. He used to take us to picnics and buy us wonderful gifts.”
“Could he love you again?” Mum got up as though my last words had annoyed her. She limped into our bathroom where she cleaned her bloodied mouth. When she returned to the room, she looked at herself in the table mirror, examining her lips with a sigh. I watched her in silence as she went over to our wardrobe and reached for our old sheet. When she removed the torn nightie to wrap the sheet around herself, I saw dark bruises scattered over her light-skinned body.
Sitting on the bed, Mum put Abigail on her lap, and said nothing for some time. I had drifted into a light sleep when I heard her call me: “Yemisi, I want you to do something for me.” I opened my eyes wide. I was curious to hear what she wanted me to do for her, perhaps to stop her pains. “What, Mum?”
“Promise me that you’ll not tell anyone that your Dad beats me.”
“What about Aunt Dupsy?” I said. Aunt Dupsy was her younger and only sister. They both loved each other very much and couldn’t do without talking to each other on the phone every day. Whenever Mum was on the phone with her, she just sat there, talking, listening and laughing as if Abby and I weren’t there. There was nothing you asked Mum at this time that she didn’t answer by shaking her head. She once told me that when they both were children, Aunt Dupsy was the one who saved her from bullying because she didn’t know how to fight back. Unlike her, Mum said, Aunt Dupsy was so tough, so aggressive, that people called her “Little Thatcher.”
“Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell any of your Dad’s family and my family. Don’t tell your friends either.”
“What if he beats you again?”
“He won’t beat me again,” she said after a short silence. “It was my fault.”
“It was your fault?” I was expecting her to nod, but she didn’t. I asked her, “What did you do to him?”
“I annoyed him,” she said, not looking at me.
“Do you annoy him every day?”
“I don’t.” She was fighting back the tears.
“Why does he beat you every day?”
“He didn’t beat me yesterday, or two days ago.”
“Because you didn’t annoy him?” Mum uttered nothing like a statute.
“Mum?” I called her.
“Yes, dear,” she answered as if she had lost her voice.
“You said dad didn’t beat you yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Was it because you didn’t annoy him?” Mum didn’t answer my question. Instead, she said, “It was the devil’s fault. Your Dad will change. He’ll become a good man again.” She seemed to be looking at herself in the table mirror opposite. “He’ll love us again. Just promise me you’ll tell no one, huh?”
I nodded. “I promise.” She put her arm around me, to cheer me up. However, I thought she needed it, more of it, more than me.
****
It was mid-morning on Saturday. The sun’s rays were already streaming into our bedroom through the curtains. Dad had not opened our door, so we were still in the room like prisoners. Abby had woken up, too. She lay beside me in bed, neither turning nor tossing, which was unlike her. Maybe she was thinking about the yogurt I’d promised to buy for her. Maybe she was thinking about Barney and Friends.
I crawled out of bed and went to the window. I parted the curtains and stared out. It seemed like the sun, which was high in the sky, was staring only at our window. I could hear the revving of a car engine. Then I heard the voices of Tade and his brothers as they ran around the house. Our house was a duplex. The Cardosos were our neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Cardoso had three children, all boys. Tade was the eldest at nine. I heard Mrs. Cardoso telling her children to stop shouting. Maybe she was the one warming up her car engine. I heard another sound, but this time it came from our bathroom. It was the sound of a running tap.
I glanced back and saw that Abby was no longer in bed. The covers had slid off into a heap on the floor. She had gone into the bathroom. Whenever Abby was alone in the bathroom, she entered the bathtub and turned the faucet on full. She put one hand in the mouth of the tap, forcing the water into the air like a fountain. She would block the drain in the bath and leave the water running until it filled the bath and ran over to the floor. Most times she was confused about how to turn off the water.
I went into the bathroom and turned off the tap. She whimpered in protest and said, “I’ll beat you.”
“Don’t say that, or Daddy will beat you,” I threatened her.
“I’m my daddy’s princess,” she said, as if to let me know my threat was impossible. She was wet all over, and water had sprinkled to the nearby wall and floor. I scooped her up out of the bathtub. There was a brief protest again.
Just then, I heard our door opening. “Yemisi?” Dad called out to me. The voice was not friendly at all.
“I’m in the bathroom, sir,” I answered, afraid. I removed Abby’s wet nightie hurriedly, and we both went back into the room. Dad had left, leaving the door ajar. I went downstairs and met him at the foot of the stairs. Without looking him in the eyes, I said, “Good morning, sir.”
“Morning,” he replied, almost to himself, climbing up the stairs. I heard Mum’s movement in the kitchen. As she turned to me, I saw her swollen face. She moved slowly, in obvious pain and exhaustion.
“I’ll fix you and Abby a sandwich first. You’ll take it with tea. Then I’ll prepare stew and amala,” she said to me, ruffling my hair affectionately.
“What are you doing here?” I heard Dad say from behind. His voice was as intimidating as his big stature. Startled, I turned to him. “Can’t you put clothes on your sister?” Abby was standing at the door, looking like a criminal who had just been sentenced to death. “Come on, go and bathe her and put something on her.” In quick strides, I went to Abby and dragged her upstairs.
Late in the afternoon, I sat with Tade on the front stoop of their house. Their grandpa had visited with them for a few days and had left early in the week. On Friday evening, Tade told me one of the stories that his grandpa had told him, about how their forefathers were taken as slaves to Brazil to work on a sugarcane plantation many, many years ago. He told me how the slaves were captured and shipped across the ocean for several days before they got to Brazil. I had come to him wanting to hear more stories, but I was disappointed when instead he said, “I overheard my Dad tell my mum that he heard somebody crying in your house last night. Did anything bad happen?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“My Dad said maybe it was a quarrel because he heard violent movements.” When I didn’t say anything, he said, “You don’t want to talk? Yemisi?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Neither of us talked for a while. Then I asked, “Does your Dad ever beat your Mum?”
“No, but sometimes they hit themselves playfully,” he answered, adding, “What about your Dad and Mum?”
“They used to play together,” I said, with hesitancy in my voice. Already, I had my chin in my hands and my elbows propped on my lap. Sadness had grounded me like fog grounding an aircraft.
“But not anymore,” he said. “They fight now?”
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Yemisi,” he said after a silence. “Maybe I should tell you more of grandpa’s stories. Do you mind?” Even with no answer from me, he started telling those stories of the slaves again. Though I acted uninterested, I listened to him say how the slaves were brutally beaten and chained both in hands and legs and how the wicked masters had padlocked their mouths so they wouldn’t eat the sugarcane. He moved from one story to another until his mum called out to him from inside. I returned home, thinking about the slaves, trying to picture how it was having their mouths padlocked.
Mum didn’t go to Plaza de’ Tower, where she retailed a range of household goods because she didn’t want people to see her swollen face. She didn’t want to answer questions over and again. She stayed at home anytime her face was swollen from Dad’s beating. When I got home, I met her in their room, sitting down on the foot of their bed.
“I couldn’t sleep. My head is hurting me,” she told me as though I were a doctor sent to administer drugs to her. I couldn’t open my mouth to express my sympathy. My face did, though. I sat quietly on the edge of the bed and said, “Mr. Cardoso knows Dad beat you last night.”
“How do you know?”
“Tade told me. He said he overheard his Dad tell his Mum that somebody in our house was crying last night.” I paused and then spat, “This beating is too much, mum. Maybe you should run away.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you like.”
“I can’t, for your sake. Who’ll take care of you?”
“We can take care of ourselves. I’ll take care of Abigail.”
“I can’t, my dear. Your Daddy will change.”
“You have said it before, Mum, and Dad hasn’t changed.” The room was bathed in a long, miserable silence. I looked at Mum and thought of how Dad used to plant kisses all over her face. Now he battered her face with heavy punches as if he were Mike Tyson.
When he was still a loving man, Dad used to take us to a private beach resort every weekend. At the resort, we could see stretches of white sand extending beyond our vision. We stayed inside African cottages made of palm frond, raffia and thatch. We swam, we played water polo, and we paddled canoes. We inhaled the sweet breath that filled the air.
I remember one time in particular when we were at resort, Dad and Mum rode away on a horse, leaving us with Aunt Dupsy. Because they didn’t return on time, I started longing for them. When I told Aunt Dupsy that we should look for them, she disagreed. “Don’t you know it’s no good to disturb husband and wife when they are alone?” she said to me. Dad and Mum were grinning when they eventually came back as if they had won the lottery. Back then, they were so absorbed in each other’s love that I sometimes felt pushed aside, but I saw the love ebb away after Dad was fired from his job. He had become a top executive in one of the new-generation banks before he was implicated in a shady loan deal. He went to court to seek redress, but frustration began to settle on him, like a mist on a hill, when he didn’t see justice coming after two years. This frustration turned to anger, which he vented on Mum.
****
Grandma and Aunt Dupsy came to visit Thursday evening. Aunt Dupsy had noticed Mum’s voice was rather weak when they talked on the phone the previous day. Mum had said she was fine, but Aunt Dupsy wouldn’t accept that nothing was wrong; thus, their visit. Mum had suffered abrasions to her face from another of Dad’s beatings. She lied to Grandma and Aunt Dupsy, saying she fell from a commercial motorcycle she had boarded to keep an urgent appointment when her car broke down on the road. I suspected that Aunt Dupsy thought there was more that Mum wasn’t telling them. Grandma asked a question. Mum answered with a wonderful lie. Aunt Dupsy exchanged a glance with me. Aunt Dupsy asked her own question. Mum told another excellent lie. I exchanged a glance with Aunt Dupsy. She asked if I had anything to say. Mum’s stare frightened me and stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Grandma asked the same question. I shook my head, avoiding Mum’s piercing gaze.
****
It was a late-October night. We had not seen our Renault car for over a week. Dad had sold our first car without telling Mum. He simply drove away in the Renault one evening and returned home without it. Now he was preparing to go out when Mum said, “Mofe, I have not seen the Renault for some days.” She was at the dining table, setting dinner out for Abby and me. Dad headed upstairs, acting like he hadn’t heard what Mum said. I could hear his footsteps in the hallway above us.
Later, we ate our yam with fried egg, and Mum had prepared pudding (which we hadn’t had for a while). I loved the smell of the pudding-- the way it filled the whole house like Mum’s French perfume. As a family, we couldn’t do without having pudding on weekends. It was one of the things Dad complimented Mum on, saying she was the best cook he had ever known. At the table, Dad would salivate, rub his palms together, and wink at me before the pudding was served. Every one of his comments made the pudding tastier. But that had become a thing of the past, as Dad no longer ate with us. I twisted my face while I ate the pudding.
“Doesn’t it taste good?” Mum asked me, cutting a portion for Abby. I didn’t answer her. The pudding, I knew, hadn’t lost its delicious taste, but Dad’s absence from the table turned the sweet flavor to bitter in my mouth.
Dad came down again, holding a file.
“I’m talking about the Renault,” Mum continued as if the conversation was still going on. “Where is it?” I saw Dad’s face getting as black as his black caftan.
“Don’t question me about the car.” He was scanning through some papers in the file as he stood there.
“I think I deserve to know,” Mum said. “You sold the first car without telling me.”
Dad dropped the file and started towards us. “I don’t need your consent to do anything. You have no grounds to query me about the car.” I saw hostility in the shape of his mouth.
“It was my car. I bought it with my money, remember?” Mum’s tone was bitter.
“I was responsible for its maintenance,” Dad snapped at Mum.
Mum, rising to her feet, said, “Notwithstanding, you don’t have any right to sell my personal possessions.” Mum had hardly completed these words when Dad slapped her, hard, across the face. She yelped in pain. Abby, rattled, started to cry. Dad pressed Mum down against the table, upsetting our yam and pudding, spattering them across the floor. Our plates shattered into pieces as they also hit the floor. The cutlery scattered on the table. It was as if Dad was possessed by a demon. He squeezed Mum’s throat tightly with his hands, gritting his teeth. I tried to pull him away, begging him to leave Mum alone. He shoved me away with his elbow, and I landed on the floor. I still continued to beg him, but my plea was not strong enough to stop him. Mum struggled to free herself from his grip, her legs dangling over the table. Abby stood in the furthest corner of the room, obviously frightened by what was happening.
Mum’s hand found a steak knife on the table, and she pierced Dad’s neck in an attempt to free herself. Dad let out a scream of pain and dropped to the floor. He held his neck, which was gushing blood, gasping and jerking like a hen that had just been slaughtered. Realizing what she had done, Mum dropped the knife onto the floor and knelt over Dad.
“Jesus! What came over me? Mofe! Mofe!” she screamed, trembling. “Oh my God! Oh my . . .! I’m finished, I’m finished . . .!”
Mum was trembling profusely when I dashed out of our front door and headed for the Cardoso house. I pounded on their door again and again, calling, “Tade, come and open the door for me.” He had barely opened the door when I brushed past him into their house. Mr. and Mrs. Cardoso and Tade’s two brothers were at the dining table. Before I got to them, Mr. Cardoso asked, “What’s wrong, Yemisi?”
“It’s my daddy. Blood--blood . . .”
Mr. Cardoso jumped out of his chair as if he’d been stung by a scorpion. Mrs. Cardoso shifted in her chair, too, dropping the spoon from her hand. Mr. Cardoso led me back to our house with a quick step.
“Mr. Cardoso, I’ve killed myself. I’m finished,” Mum lamented. She was kneeling next to Dad, with his lifeless head in her blood-covered hands. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, which was also smeared with blood. Abby was standing beside her, looking frightened and confused. “It was accidental. I wanted to save myself. He wanted to kill me. I wanted . . .” She trailed off into tears.
“Dad wanted to kill Mummy, and he fell to the floor and blood came out,” I said soberly. I wanted to cry, but tears were not coming to my eyes.
Mrs. Cardoso arrived. Her rosary dropped out of her hand when she saw Dad’s lifeless body, and she screamed, “Holy Mary!” Drawing Abby to herself, she asked her husband what to do.
“I’m afraid we have to call the police, we must call them. We can’t handle this alone,” Mr. Cardoso answered. He ‘scurried round the room before catching sight of Dad’s phone on the coffee table. He picked it up and made the call. He went out and returned immediately, sitting on the edge of the sofa. The sounds of moaning and mourning floated through the room like waves.
A little later, I heard car tires squeal in front of our house. Then doors slammed and footsteps approached the front door. Four men entered our house – two in black police uniforms and two in regular clothes. The first man in regular clothes seemed to be the leader. He had a receding hairline like that of Tade’s grandpa. He identified himself as Inspector Kuku and then began to ask question after question. There was a whine in Mum’s voice as she struggled to respond to the questions. Inspector Kuku picked up the bloodied knife with a handkerchief and told everyone to move away from the dining area. He called the two in uniform aside. They talked in low voices for a few moments, taking down notes. Inspector Kuku snapped his fingers and beckoned to the other man in regular clothes. They both went out. I heard a car door slam again. An unusual heaviness hung in the air. The two uniformed policemen stood with their hands stuck in their trouser’ pockets. Mr. Cardoso was rubbing his chin, maybe unconsciously.
Normally, Mrs. Cardoso was always full of smiles. In fact, the first thing people noticed about her was her smile. It caught anyone’s eyes like the belly of a woman in her third trimester of pregnancy. Dad once said there were too many smiles in heaven the day her mother conceived her, but tonight there was no place for the smile on her face. Mum was sitting on a stool, pensive. In a moment, everything played out like a movie.
Inspector Kuku returned with the other man, who held a camera. The quartet walked over to Dad’s body. The one holding the camera snapped pictures of the scene in front of them. Inspector Kuku told him to take some more from another angle. I didn’t know what they wanted to do with the photo of a dead man.
A siren was blaring from afar. The sound was louder with each passing second until the wailing stopped in front of our house. Inspector Kuku looked out the window and announced that it had arrived. Four paramedics stepped into the house with a stretcher and a neatly folded white cloth. One of them had a mustache like Mr. Cardoso, and another was as tall as Dad. They all wore white bibs over their shirts and had white gloves on their hands. The bibs had a red cross at the back.
Inspector Kuku led them to Dad’s body. They lifted him onto the stretcher and tightened straps over his chest and legs. Mum broke into tears again. Tears started down my face when the paramedics carried Dad’s body out of the house. I felt my dream of becoming a banker was being taken out of me. Mrs. Cardoso pulled me close to her, sharing in my tears. Mum, handcuffed, was led out by the policemen. We all followed them and watched as the stretcher bearing Dad’s body was lifted into the ambulance--a white Hiace bus bearing a red inscription of Lagos State Ambulance Service on either side.
****
I didn’t see Mum again until we met in Court. She looked listless, as if she hadn’t slept for some days. I couldn’t have imagined her not wearing her make-up and French perfume. Abby and I had since moved to Grandma’s house because Dad’s family had taken over our house. They said Mum would not go unpunished for killing their son. They didn’t want to see us either. About six days after Mum was taken away, Aunt Dupsy and Mr. Cardoso came home with a man they introduced as Mum’s lawyer. The man cheered me up, saying he needed my co-operation to do his job successfully. He said I was the principal witness he would rely upon. Aunt Dupsy eyed me in a certain way, as if to say, “It’s time to stand up for your mum, Yemisi.”
Abby slid off Aunt Dupsy’s lap when she saw Mum led into the courtroom by a policeman. She protested when Aunt Dupsy held her back. Aunt Dupsy released her to go to Mum.
There were other people in the court room, and two cases were called before Mum’s. As she went to stand in the trial box, I could see depression pushing down on her like a coffee press. She was charged with one-count of murder. The court clerk read that she had unlawfully killed Dad with a knife, thereby committing an offense punishable under the laws of the state. When asked, she pleaded not guilty. The magistrate adjourned the case and ordered that Mum be remanded in prison.
The case was adjourned three more times before the magistrate gave her judgment. At the second and third trials, the clerk called me into the witness box, where Mum’s lawyer and the other lawyer asked me some questions. I told the court how Dad used to take us out when he was still a loving man, how he began to beat Mum every night, and how he almost killed Mum before she accidentally killed him. The other lawyer (who I thought hated Mum like Aunt Maria, Dad’s younger sister, did) asked why I didn’t tell anyone that Dad always beat Mum. I exchanged a glance with Mum and answered, “Because she warned me not to tell anyone.” He had asked Mum the same question and she had replied that she hadn’t wanted anyone to see Dad as a bad man. A brittle smile hovered on Mum’s lips when the lawyer said she could be lying about the abuse. Her lawyer countered that she didn’t tell anyone because of the love she had for Dad. The two lawyers occasionally traded fierce arguments, which only the magistrate could bring under control. Mr. Cardoso also stood as a witness, telling the court that they sometimes heard violent movements from our apartment.
Aunt Maria wanted Mum sentenced to death. She spoke against Mum in the witness box, saying she was too possessive, that she wanted Dad to herself alone, and that she rarely allowed Dad’s family in our house, which his brother complained about. She didn’t hide her hatred for Mum when Dad was alive. Whenever she came to our house, there was nothing Mum could do to please her. She complained often that Mum was arrogant. She must have provoked other members of the family to gang up against Mum, who knows? After the second trial, she and Aunt Dupsy exchanged words because she accused me of telling lies to save Mum. She said she’d known before then that I didn’t belong to her brother. When Abby reached up to be held, she pushed her away, calling her a “daughter of a whore.” As I stood in the witness box at the third trial, Aunt Maria eyes were on me, reading me like an electric scanner. Even though Aunt Dupsy had told me not to mind her, I still fumbled for words when she made threatening faces.
It was in June that the Magistrate gave her verdict. “This court finds you, Mrs. Hannah Hassan, guilty of manslaughter, and thereby sentences you to seven years imprisonment,” she pronounced, her voice vibrating across the court room. She brought her hammer down with a loud bang and rose from her seat. Aunt Dupsy buried her face in her hands. We both spilled the inevitable bitter tears. The two lawyers shook hands and patted each other’s shoulders, as if they had been friends at the trials.
Mum embraced Abby and me before she was handcuffed and led outside by two policemen. As she climbed up into the waiting Black Maria, Mrs. Cardoso put her arm around me, and her son’s story of sugarcane slaves came to my mind. I asked, “Is my mummy a slave?”
“Your mum is not a slave, Yemisi. She’s a good woman.” The smile once again had evaporated from her face like water in the summer heat.
The Black Maria started to move. My eyes were blurred with tears. “Will they padlock her mouth?”
“Nobody will padlock her mouth. She’ll still come back home,” she assured me.
****
Once in a while Aunt Dupsy took us to see Mum in the prison. A warden would lead her to us. Mum wore blue clothes with number “212” on them. She would put Abby on her lap and say that she had become a big girl, emphasizing the word “big.” She would ask me about my school, and I would tell her everything I could remember. It was hard seeing her as a murderer. It was harder concluding that Dad was wicked, and that he deserved his death. She loved him. He loved her much more.
The warden would return and say it was time to leave. Mum would put on a brave smile. She would cup my face in her hands and assure me she would soon come back home to make delicious pudding for us.
THE END
Note: This story was first published in the September edition of Istanbul Literary Review in a slightly different form.
_____________________________
Author's Bio: Olusola Akinwale grew up in Ibadan, Nigeria. He is an award-winning essayist. His work has appeared in Author-me, Saraba Magazine, Dew on the Kudzu and Istanbul Literary Review. He currently lives and works in Lagos, Nigeria.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Grosspapa
Grosspapa
It’s
seldom that one hears of a person who has lived his entire life in one
house. Yet, even more interesting to learn that he was born and died in
the same room of that house. One such person was my paternal
grandfather, (Grosspapa).
The farm and home are known today as Mulberry Farm and was homesteaded by Grosspapa’s father, Henry, who was originally from Ohio. In 1873 he traveled south with his wife and Henry Jr., his first born son. The little town of Cullman, Alabama
was being settled and it was here that the family made their home and
in time increased to a total of five children. My grandfather, Edd, was
born in the sparse bedroom of the home his parents built in this new,
establishing territory. He peacefully died there 86 years later. Today, I
live in that same home. My two sons were the fifth generation of our
family to occupy Mulberry Farm.
In
the late 1930’s, during the early years of their marriage, my parents
shared the home with Grossmama Eda and Grosspapa Edd. Times were hard
and families were struggling, especially in the south. Farmers
were lucky to make any profit at all from their crops and fortunate to
put food on the table; so my parents agreed to live here and help
Grosspapa on the farm raising potatoes, hay, corn, strawberries, grapes
and a little cotton.
I
was born in 1940 and soon my parents moved from the main house into a
small dwelling just across the drive way. We had our own privacy, yet
remained a vital part of the big household for several more years. I was
close school age when one of Grosspapa’s near by rent houses became
vacant. Mother and Daddy decided we should move the half
mile up the road to live in that house, which provided much more room
for the three of us.
As
the only grandchild, I was naturally the apple of my grandparents’ eye
and today I hold an array of memories of our years together…especially
memories of my Grosspapa.
Though
I was much too young to remember the incident, my mother loved to tell
about the time she left me in Grosspapa’s care for the afternoon while
she and Grossmama attended a church function in town. I was almost a
year old and was just learning to walk. Mother had left specific
instructions for Grosspapa, along with plenty of clean diapers, and the
reminder to be sure and keep little Ray dry and clean. When the ladies
returned later that afternoon, Grosspapa had so snuggly pinned that
cloth diaper on me I could hardly wiggle. Mother simply
couldn’t be angry, rather laugh and agree with Grosspapa… after all…I
was indeed clean and dry, as she had directed.
Grosspapa
was short and what some might call portly. He loved to joke, tease and
laugh. With his big belly and jovial nature, I often thought he would
have been the perfect model for Santa Claus. The old German farmers had
the habit of rising early and working until noon. After lunch, both they and their horses would rest for several hours before completing their work for the day. Grosspapa would spread a few of Grossmama’s homemade
quilts on the dining room floor or front porch. This pallet was the
perfect spot for the weary men to stretch out and relax, sometimes
napping until the heat of the day had passed. Poor Grosspapa, though he
never complained, I doubt he got much rest with me around. I loved
nothing more than to climb and roll around and over that big stomach of
his, giggling and tickling, having such a grand time with my special
pal.
There
was the time he tied a little wooden swing up on the front porch. Of
course, just sitting on it wasn’t exciting enough for me. I was
determined to stand up and swing.
“Sit down!” he ordered. “You might fall and hurt yourself.”
His
admonition meant nothing to me as stood up once again. Grosspapa’s tone
was a bit more stern the second time. “Ray, I told you to sit down! If
you stand up again I’ll ‘botch’ (German term for spank) you!” And
that’s exactly what he did when I stood up that third time, promptly
fell from the swing and hit my head on the cement porch floor. I was quickly learning the hard way, through my tears, to obey my Grosspapa.
I
was such a fortunate little boy. After all, I had two homes only five
minutes apart and was as comfortable in one as the other. We
lived in the country and at that time there were dirt roads and few
cars, so I was free to ride my little green bike up and down the road
between both houses. Many afternoons I would ride down to share supper
with Grossmama and Grosspapa, then scurry home to have a second meal
with my parents, who had no idea I had already eaten. Saturday was
Grossmama’s baking day and I couldn’t wait for Saturday morning to
arrive. I’d get up bright and early and eagerly peddle
down to happily stuff myself with her delicious German cookies, rolls,
pies and breads. “Here ‘Houncie’, (German for honey), have another
Snickerdoodle cookie,” Grossmama would say. And I always did!
As
a youngster I accompanied Dad and Grosspapa to the fields and worked
alongside them and their hired help. Whether hauling hay, digging
potatoes, picking strawberries or planting corn, he set an example of
doing a job well. Grosspapa inspired within me a love of
hard work that I have carried through my entire life. Hopefully, I have
passed the same desire along to my own sons. I observed his fairness and
truthfulness as he dealt with other farmers and workers. No matter the age or color of those who came to work on the farm, he paid an honest day wage for an honest day of work.
Every third Saturday I accompanied him to town when he attended the German Farmer’s Insurance meetings for the local farmers. He was one of the directors of the organization and took his responsibility seriously. I
watched him give and keep his word to the men in the community. A
simple handshake was Grosspapa’s bond. I observed the respect he showed
others when making business dealings and the respect he was given in
return. My hope was to gain this same respect when I reached manhood.
On
one of our Saturday trips to town Grosspapa informed me that after the
insurance meeting we were going to do something special. While the men
conducted their business I kept squirming with excitement, hardly able
to sit still as I anxiously awaited my much anticipated surprise. The meeting was about to conclude when he motioned to me. “Come on,” he said, “we’re headed to Stiefelmeyer’s Department Store to buy you a brand new pair of boots.”
Cold
weather was rapidly approaching and I really needed those boots. My
only pair of shoes were worn and almost too small. The gentleman in the
shoe department was quite patient and spent a great deal of time fitting
me properly and letting me try on several pairs of boots. “Son,” said
Grosspapa, “you can have any pair you want. Don’t worry about the cost.
They’ll last you a long time.”
I
eventually chose a beautiful pair of soft, tan leather boots and was in
total shock when Grosspapa handed the salesman seventeen dollars. I
couldn’t imagine having anything that cost that much! As usual, my grandpa was right. I wore those Redwing Boots all through high school and into my college days. After
all these years I’ll never forget the joy Grosspapa’s generosity and
kindness brought to my young heart that Saturday morning, nor the warm
love I felt for my grandfather.
Most
country boys of this time were allowed to drive mechanical equipment
used on the farm. From a young age I was quite familiar with machinery
such as tractors, balers, etc. Grosspapa knew I was
experienced and safe under the wheel of a vehicle. When I was just
twelve years old he gave me his black, 1932 four door Plymouth
automobile. Although I wasn’t legally allowed to drive the car until I
turned sixteen, Mom and Dad said I could drive it on the back roads in
our community. When I entered ninth grade they gave me permission to
drive it the two miles to our county school. It wasn’t long until I
received my driver’s license and could then drive the Plymouth to high school in town.
There were numerous grape vines at Mulberry Farm, as there were on many farms in this region of North Alabama.
The first settlers of Cullman had chosen this area, in part, due to the
climate and terrain, both being conducive for growing grapes, which
they skillfully converted into wine.
“Listen carefully,” instructed Grosspapa, “you have to follow the recipe exactly or all your hard work will go to waste.”
We had spent many months in preparation for this chore. During the past spring and early summer Grosspapa and I had
diligently tended to his grape vines and carefully watched as the tiny
buds matured, developing into what were now fat, juicy, healthy grapes.
Time had arrived to pick, squeeze, and make wine from the plump berries.
A process learned from his own father that Grosspapa had perfected over the years. He was now ready to pass that part of his heritage along to his only grandson.
Making
good wine was not simply a pastime for Grosspapa, but a vital part of
his annual income, just as the sale of his other crops. He provided several local churches with communion wine and had many regular customers, some who traveled from as far away as Birmingham,
fifty miles south of Cullman. Two rather wealthy, prestigious gentlemen
from that part of the state were the department store owners, Mr.
Pizitz and Mr. Loveman. Mr. Pizitz would call a day or two prior their
visit, allowing Grossmama ample time to cook an authentic
German meal for the two entrepreneurs and their driver. One could sense a
flurry of excitement in the air as preparation was made to welcome our
two distinguished guests. Grosspapa was honored that they would drive so
far to purchase his wine and looked forward to their visit each year.
Following
the meal each year and having kindly wished her visitors farewell, I
vividly recall the gleeful look in Grossmama’s eyes as she began to
clear the table. Easing her hand carefully down beside Mr.
Loveman’s empty plate she was never disappointed; for concealed, just
under the rim, with appreciation to his gracious hostess, was a brand
new, shiny, ten dollar gold piece he always tucked there for her. A
slight grin would cross her lips and she would begin softly humming,
silently slipping the money into her apron pocket as she began to wash
the dirty dishes.
“Now
that we have picked all the grapes,” Grosspapa continued, “tomorrow
morning we’ll need to use the wine press and squeeze out all the juice.
It will take 350 pounds of grapes to make fifty gallons of wine.”
When
day broke the next morning I was dutifully kneeling beside Grosspapa,
quite eager to squeeze the grapes we had picked the day before. “You
wait here just a minute,” he said. “I’m go get the wine press out of the
barn. I’ll be right back.”
Moments
later he returned, struggling with a bulky, worn wooden box. “This was
my daddy’s wine press, your great grandfather, Henry. He built it. One
day it will be yours and you can pass it on to your own sons when you
teach them to make wine.”
I was intrigued by the process and listened intently to Grosspapa carefully explain how to use the press. “Now, are you ready to start?” he asked.
“Yes sir… I’m ready.”
And
with that we began the lengthy, messy job of retrieving the sweet,
sticky juice from the abundance of ripe grapes we had picked. My early
morning eagerness soon turned to fatigue as the work became a real
chore, instead of the frolic and fun I had previously anticipated. My
naive interest had not imagined such taxing labor. After several hours
of using, then properly cleaning the press and discarding the pulp,
seeds and skin, we were ready to mix the juice with sugar.
“Here, open these bags of sugar,” said Grosspapa, tossing me his pocketknife.
“But Grosspapa, how much sugar should we use?”
“For each gallon of juice, you mix in two and a half pounds of sugar,” he instructed.
The
two of us carefully measured and mixed the ingredients. It took quite a
while to complete our job. I was puzzled, and anxious to complete this
task. “Grosspapa, what do we do next? What are we gonna do with all this stuff now?”
“I
have a special hidden place in one of the old out buildings where I can
store several fifty gallon wooden barrels. Only a few people know about
this place, but I know I can trust you to keep the secret.”
“Oh,
yes, yes!” My prior tiredness suddenly melted away and I was renewed,
filled with great curiosity for what Grosspapa was about to show and
tell me.
We worked hard pouring all the juice into those hidden barrels that steamy afternoon. “We’ve
got to be very patient. Everything will have to work together until
Thanksgiving,” he told me. “We’ll have to keep a regular eye on how it’s
progressing and sip it every day or so to be sure it is exactly what we
want.”
I
couldn’t wait until Thanksgiving that year and was so proud and excited
when the day finally arrived that Grosspapa announced the wine was
finished working and ready for use. We gathered an abundance of clean glass jars and jugs, then painstakingly
siphoned each one full of the beautiful, delicious liquid from the
barrels, finally able to see and enjoy the true “Fruits of our Labors.”
Grosspapa and I had made wine!
Oft’
times, we humans are so busy living life we forget to actually “see”
it. Perhaps the old adage about gaining wisdom with age isn’t truly
appreciated or understood until we have begun nearing that advanced age.
In reflection, one memorable incident in my wonderful
relationship with Grosspapa stands out as I am about to reach a certain
milestone in my personal journey of life.
The day after Grosspapa’s seventy first birthday I made one of my frequent visits to Mulberry Farm. Before long, Grosspapa began to joke and tease me.
“Poor old Grosspapa,” he said, hanging his head, “I had to eat my
birthday lunch alone yesterday. Grossmama was gone to Womens’ Guild at
church and I was here all by myself. Don’t you feel sorry for me?” Of
course, I knew he wasn’t serious and we had a good laugh, both knowing
that a grand birthday celebration was planned for him the following
Sunday afternoon.
I
now have a grandson of my own and tomorrow I will celebrate my seventy
first birthday. It seems just moments ago that my own grandfather was
turning the exact same age and I was just a little boy at his knee. How
rapidly those many years have slipped away. Yes, all we truly have left
to cherish are our precious memories and I am blessed to hold a heart
overflowing with them.
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