A Slight Tilt of the Head

The color enhanced black and white photograph remained on her bureau more than thirty years after the subject’s death. A smooth man’s face with kind eyes stared out from the photo. His head slightly tilted with a subtle wry smile faintly playing around his mouth. A stranger to this man might mistakenly guess this to be a handsome man with a good joke to tell. Those who knew him and his life knew the cocked angle hid a secret. And the not quite smiling eyes spoke of pain rather than joy.
His name Walter Greek Daniel, my paternal grandfather. I loved to examine his picture as a child. His violent death occurred about ten months before I was born. I learned his story slowly and secretly over the years. My grandmother loved him and never allowed a negative word about him to pass her lips. She also did not tolerate it from others. The very first story I heard led to my fascination with his photo.

I was about five when I overheard my dad tell someone, “The best thing that ever happened was when my father got pushed down some stairs in a bar fight where he lay dead drunk  They got him to the hospital too late. My old man managed to survive but not for long, he died a few days later in the hospital. I knew Mother would be safe.”
This little snippet of information grew in my mind to legend with a more romantic flair. You see my dad was somewhat of drunk also. Handsome and charming but a drunk none the less. So I took the secret words, considered the source and reinvented it as I gazed at my grandfather’s photo.
“Dashing family man risks his own life in the effort to save a mysterious stranger from the perils of a dimly lit stairwell after a night of dancing and drinking. Sadly, our hero survived only hours after his fall. Wife and daughter were beside his bed as he passed into glory.” This would be the headline story if my musings came true.

I needed a hero. Even a generation old hero was better than the non-hero dad I thought I had. Turns out my dad would be a hero, but I would not know that until his death nearly thirty-five years after my early fascination with the photo on the bureau. As a child, I lived varying miles from grandmother’s house but every summer we visited. Every summer included a meditation-like visit with my grandfather’s photo.

As the years passed I heard more secret stories. My grandfather did drink to excess and laid very rough hands on my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt. Two younger children, both boys, my uncles escaped most of the abuse. At a young age, he was involved in a serious car accident, this would have been in early 1930’s. The accident left him with a crushed check bone that left his face sunken under one eye. It caused him a lot of pain and he was known to grimace quite often with the sharpness of the pain.

Now I look at that same photo and know that he hated the crushed side of his face and always tilted his head to minimize the effect. His slight smile more of a sneer. I also know that my aunt forgave him and looks forward to being reunited with him in heaven. She prays every day that he found a way back to God in those last hours of his life. I know that if it weren’t for him there would be no me. One more thing, sometimes a slight tilt of the head is just that but sometimes it hides a secret.

My grandfather really was found at the bottom of the stairs in a popular bar. He did drink. He did abuse. He also taught school. He told good stories. He was not happy. He loved my grandmother a lot. She loved him. This is all I know for sure.

Cat Got Your Tongue

“My husband never does the dishes, he eats plenty but never does the dishes! He also won’t go grocery shopping! I have to set the trash in front of the door to get him to take it out. Hitting the toilet while standing up is apparently an Olympic event he never got a medal in. One other thing…blah, blah, blah.”

I sit staring blindly at my oldest friend. I have heard it all before. She starts in on a topic, today it is her husband. My mind runs to the taste of my tea, it seems a little bitter. Picking up a pink packet, flicking it with my finger, about to add it to my tea when my reverie is broken.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue today? You haven’t said a word. I asked you a question.” Her red lips purse.

“Oh sorry, I was taking in all you are saying.” Thinking. “No, I don’t think it’s too much to ask, he should help with homework,”  I replied.

 

Origins of “cat got your tongue” are attributed to two vague references. The first references a whipping with a cat-o-nine tail as punishment on a ship. The whipping was so severe that the receiver was often rendered speechless for some time. The second and even older explanation goes back to ancient Egypt. It seems that liars and those who spoke against the Gods might have their tongues cut out and fed to the royal cats.

My family often uses this phrase as a humorous way to get someone back on track with what is often hectic conversation amongst a table full of many generations.

 

Vera’s Last Night

Y’all know that spooky look faces take on when sitting around a fire at night? Well I guess as good as I can recall that’s how we all looked. Maybe it reckoned in what happened that night, maybe it didn’t. I do know what I’m about to relay is best told around a fire just like the night we all remember as Vera’s last.
They was three brothers born to the same mother and one brother born to the second wife of their daddy. Born Georgia farmers during the great depression little coin passed through any of their hands. Food was what they grew or killed or traded for. They worked hard and early on their daddy included the scarcely bearded boys in is his nightly liberation. Weren’t much to do after dark but drink a drink and play a tune in the firelight.
Daddy always called it liberation, “heah them croakers? Gettin’ on ta liberation, lawd, lawd, I’m a ready.”
Now is the time I think I should name these folks, else you won’t know who is who. Raiford was the oldest, followed by Eugene, EB and Clarence. Their daddy, Ezekiel Boston, was knowed by most folks as Boss. Boss had a sweet young wife who gave him six children before she was 25. Four of ’em made it to be grown but by that time their mama, Annabelle, had joined her two little angels. Next Boss chose a coarser, sturdier wife, she gave him nine more young un’s. Her name was Gussie. She liked to dip snuff with a pretty spoon, I cain’t never forget that. The only naming left is the wives, Vera went with Raiford, Gladys went with Eugene, EB didn’t have no wife then and Clarence had Nell. Oh and me, I am the baby sister of Raiford, Eugene and EB. Clarence is my baby, Gussie had him but gave him to me cause I cried over how pretty he was.
On that night, my brother’s was full grown men. They had took to selling corn liquor across the state line up in South Carolina and had just came back from a real good run. Daddy had the fire lit and he were just getting his old banjo turned up. Vera was a little put out because the boys (they got called boys till our Daddy was gone from this earth.) was late and missed supper. So she and Gladys was back in the kitchen cleaning. They wanted me to help, but I didn’t. Though I was mostly grown none had picked me as a bride yet. Daddy said I was too pretty for pawin’ at.

Daddy was red-faced and singing a tune I ain’t never heard. I  could see Vera bent over the sink through the little window on the front side of the house. She looked like she was singing along, I remember thinking how she knew the words. Mostly Daddy sang songs we all knew, my favorite, Keep on the Sunny Side, that Carter family just made me so happy ever-time I got to listen in. Our uncle had a radio at his house, he was a dentist, not a dirt farmer.
Back to that last night…
In the middle of that new song a sharp crack rang out, it echoed in my head for a good bit after. My brother’s and my daddy tore off into the woods, shouting for us to get back in the house.

Daddy hollered, “Make sure Vera is alright.”

Nell, me and Gussie run up on the porch just as Gladys was running out the door. She looked white as a ghost and the cat had got her tongue. She fell into a faint right then.
Gussie screamed out, “Gladyses been shot!”
But it weren’t Gladys, it were Vera.
Nell told us the news,”Vera’s dead, shot right through the head!”
Never did know what happened, my brother’s reckon some revenuers was trying to send them a message. Maybe they followed ’em back after the run. I keep thinking about that song, I never heard it again, but ever time I hear a love song it reminds me of Vera’s last night. Daddy died a few months later after a bout of melancholy. Raiford ain’t ever been right since. I take care of him now.  I never did find no husband.

The narrator is my grandmother, she was actually married four times. My great-aunt really did got shot in her kitchen.  The rest…?

 

Practicing

The following is my entry for the Yeah Write Super Challenge. We were given a genre, a topic and 1000 word limit. My group, group three, was assigned a personal essay on “Hair.” I have been selected to move on to round two of the Super Challenge and I am Super Excitied!

The store is small but popular with the tourists. Your groceries bagged by tanned beach boys and girls. Weary travelers are overwhelmed with disbelief when they find their groceries will be loaded into their waiting cars. Cashiers, smiling, friendly, grandmotherly types can count your change back to you accurately or agree with you as you state your disdain for those darned new – fangled chip readers. A reflection captured by the store front window of a short woman with curves that have gone more to round catches my eye. She is dressed in the store uniform and then it occurs to me that it is my reflection. I am a silver-haired cashier for a small grocery in a big tourist town. Chit-chat over ringing up groceries is my specialty.
“Where are you folks from?”
“Ohio,” they reply.
“Really? I used to live in Ohio.”
We laugh about what a small world it is. This is a common conversation as we are a popular vacation spot for Buckeyes. On occasion I have been asked if I might know their grandmother who also lived in my Ohio town.
Fingers of shock grip my voice, “No, I don’t think so.”
Hazy memories float in slow motion, a young long-haired blonde, threatens to overtake the conversation with a snarky additional reply. Well practiced in self-control the haze clears and I smile, wishing them a great vacation.
A man of some great age peers at me under his Vietnam Veteran cap. I look up and smile and thank him for his service.
“Hmph,” he says.
I tell him my father was a Vietnam Vet, he perks up. We chat for a few minutes discovering that we were in Ft. Benning, GA at the same time. He may remember my dad’s name.
“Do you have grandchildren?” he asks. I do, but I am chagrined that this old man sees me as someone with grandchildren. Of course, he knows my approximate age and there is that dang silver hair thing.
“Yes, I have five,” I reply.
“Remember to tell them about your dad,” clearing his throat, he says goodbye.
A new store phone app allows us to scan the discount card. Engaged in this action I get to peek at the other stores they shop, I notice Meijers, a sure clue that they are from Michigan.
I ask, “Are you from Michigan?” My smile is sympathetic, ” I spent twenty years in West Michigan.”
As I speak, I see the flashes of memory in their eyes. Cold, snow, grime, I can almost guess Detroit.
” We live outside Detroit. What brings you down here?” (Everything is “down here” if you are from Michigan).
“Retirement and no snow,” I chuckle.
Their surly youngest daughter, about thirteen, has green streaks in her dark blonde hair.
Hoping for a connection I say, “I like your hair.”
Crossing her arms she replies, “Your hair would be easy cause it’s silver, you should totally do it. I done my granny’s hair purple.”
She has reminded me of a poem I read for the first time when I was thirty.
The inscription reads, Dearest Daughter – when I saw this book I was really intrigued and I thought that you would like it too. The date is Mother’s Day 1991. The book, When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple, an anthology of poems and stories. No ropes of dismay ran up my mind’s flag pole when I received this gift. I was young with recently colored hair in the most up to date auburn with low lights. I thought my mom was handing me some insight into her dance with aging. I read Warning by Jenny Joseph. It begins, “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.” It continues about living on the edge of outrageous because you can, because you are old. Towards the end there is mention of practicing a little now so that people won’t be too surprised when you are old wearing a red hat. Most will recognize the red hat part, I had forgotten the practice part.
I am on the precipice of the old woman I hope to become. I have lived in seven states, married one man, bore three children, adore five grandchildren. I have been blonde, auburn, brown, dark blonde and accidentally orange ( a bad summer with Sun-In circa 1980). Given a choice between paying mounting medical bills for my dear husband or hair color I chose bills. One year later my hair. silver on top and gunship gray in the underneath layers in back, is cropped short. When I was blonde, a scant thirteen months ago I loved the aghast expressions from people exclaiming, “What? You are a grandmother?” It is time to quit looking for the surprise and embrace the person I have dreamed of being. A woman with a legacy of family, healthy enough to enjoy it, young enough to start practicing so people won’t be too surprised. Slow recognition just spilled in my head, I need to start practicing so I won’t be too surprised.
I have an appointment on Tuesday to get a bold aqua blue streak amidst the shock of silver on top of my head. Recently, I bought a red bra, I hate it because the straps droop down all the time. Inspiration by Jenny Joseph has me re-thinking the bra however. The title of this new phase in my life might be, When I practice being an old woman I shall have a blue streak in my hair and wear tank tops with a red bra. I’m not allowed to wear a tank top to work, but I will know the red bra is there. Each time a strap leaves my shoulder I will be reminded I have a blue streak. Work will be fun on Wednesday.