My mother was only 17 when she had me. My father was a weathered, wizened gnarled man older than my grandfather by a decade or so. Grandpa and Grandma didn't like him and didn't trust him. I loved him dearly.
There was a time when my father came to sweet talk her, when she was young. He gave her a big 'diamond' ring to wear and talked of bank accounts and far away places that he would take her to see. Land that he owned, and houses that he had, skills and jobs waiting for him to grab.
What he really had in a city somewhere, was a wife and kids all grown up. What he really did was drink and pick peaches at an orchard nearby running a crew. What her real life would be for 6 long years was care and mishaps and worry, with two children born into a shifting migrant lifestyle. Yeah, We moved. She saw the back country parts of great states. She saw dirt roads and the view from the bottom of trees. She saw roadside diners with turned meat and negro cooks running her white ass ragged. She sat by the curb when the axle broke on the truck, with no where to go and no way to calm her active and hungry child. She dried diapers on the antennae of the car, washed in the back of gas stations, and slept in the cab, till we hit the state lines. Michigan for apples, Florida for tomatoes and oranges. I played in the dust and grew like a weed.
We moved and moved, till he died. He died driving down the road on the wrong side, drunk or asleep at the wheel. He came to a hard painful stop when the 18 wheeler hit him, and so did we.
We ended up reluctant returnees to Grandpa's house. He had built two tiny rooms with his own hands, a bedroom and a sitting room, with an outside kitchen, just big enough for he and Grandma to relax in. Our dad's death meant he needed more room. Room for a difficult daughter and her two children, one active, one clingy. He dug a foundation while we watched in solemn file. He was down in the trench, up to his knees in clay, his back drenched with sweat, his brow furrowed with grief and anger.
He kept looking over at me. I kept my hands quiet and my mouth shut. I kept handing him iced tea.
Wow...this has a lot in it. I want to hear more...This reads like the first chapter of a good novel. I would definitely buy this book!
ReplyDeleteOne quibble Rosie...Even on the reread, the last paragraph makes me think he made the two little rooms for you guys...when, in reality, I think you are decribing what he had already done for his house. Then, the rest of the paragraph is his building the addition for you. The first time through it seemed a redundancy and the second time I misread it that way again...even tho I knew it wasn't right. I'm trying to think of what it could read...but, you'll figure it out.
ReplyDeleteI love the phrase 'reluctant returnees'
Maybe...grandpa's house, two tiny rooms and an outside kitchen he had made with his own hands. I'd still buy the book!
yes thanks that needs fixing. I wrote it so fast, good to have outside eyes and ears.
Deletethere are chapters around the blog, little here, little there. nothing in sequence.