There's a scary seldom-mentioned feeling in our family that my father will have another heart attack, one that he won't survive.
My father, dressed in his plaid button-down shirt on a Friday night, held my daughter. Past her bedtime, and past his. In the soft light of the living room lamp, they smiled at each other. The same calloused hands that held me as I grew up were wrapped around her cotton pink blanket. Her small body swam in the comfort of his arms.
"I've got to be around to see her grow up," he said.
Showing posts with label Papa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Papa. Show all posts
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Folklore and Fish Tale Friday: Grandmother's Fist
Grandmother's Fist
We call my father's mother Grandmother, because Grammy or Grandma is too casual for her, too informal. Grandmother is five feet tall, 100 pounds, and she cusses every once in a while, just enough to make you cock your head at the words coming from her mouth. She is not a little old lady. I get a lot of my favorite traits from my Grandmother. My temper. My righteous indignation. My sarcasm. My ability to survive on my own. My pure disgust at the sentiment when people offer to help me. Here's the family story, which is different depending on who's telling it.
Papa, my father, and his brother were in the front yard, pulling weeds with their mother. It was a hot sticky day, oppressive heat you can only find in North Carolina where the ocean funk creeps west over the lowlands and hunkers down between the land and the sun, refusing to leave. Papa and his brother were fed up with the work.
It was time to come in, and they ran in the front door and locked their mother out. There they were in the living room, not really giggling, because I can't imagine my father has ever giggled, but surely immensely pleased with their joke.
Grandmother didn't say a word. She punched through the window on the door and glass shattered into the house. Then her hand, like a disembodied appendage out of some horror film, found the doorknob on the inside and unlocked it.
Papa said he had never been more scared in his whole life. Grandmother said her sons never tried another trick on her again.
Folklore and Fish Tale Fridays are all about the way I remember family stories. My father is a true storyteller, so much so that the actual truth of his tales are highly suspect but their spirit and wisdom never come into question. This is my attempt to capture the wisdom unique to my family.
We call my father's mother Grandmother, because Grammy or Grandma is too casual for her, too informal. Grandmother is five feet tall, 100 pounds, and she cusses every once in a while, just enough to make you cock your head at the words coming from her mouth. She is not a little old lady. I get a lot of my favorite traits from my Grandmother. My temper. My righteous indignation. My sarcasm. My ability to survive on my own. My pure disgust at the sentiment when people offer to help me. Here's the family story, which is different depending on who's telling it.
Papa, my father, and his brother were in the front yard, pulling weeds with their mother. It was a hot sticky day, oppressive heat you can only find in North Carolina where the ocean funk creeps west over the lowlands and hunkers down between the land and the sun, refusing to leave. Papa and his brother were fed up with the work.
It was time to come in, and they ran in the front door and locked their mother out. There they were in the living room, not really giggling, because I can't imagine my father has ever giggled, but surely immensely pleased with their joke.
Grandmother didn't say a word. She punched through the window on the door and glass shattered into the house. Then her hand, like a disembodied appendage out of some horror film, found the doorknob on the inside and unlocked it.
Papa said he had never been more scared in his whole life. Grandmother said her sons never tried another trick on her again.
Folklore and Fish Tale Fridays are all about the way I remember family stories. My father is a true storyteller, so much so that the actual truth of his tales are highly suspect but their spirit and wisdom never come into question. This is my attempt to capture the wisdom unique to my family.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Folklore and Fish Tales
It occurred to me last night, as I was telling one of my father's favorite stories to The Old Man, that my dad's stories have less than a 50/50 shot of being entirely true. In fact, when I have heard the same stories from his brother, the essential elements are there, but key and sometimes major details have changed. There's wisdom in these stories though, an effort to preserve what was and amuse and teach the next generation. I highly admire the ability to expand and exaggerate on known quantities, to spin a good story. My father (Papa) is a genius at this. So as I remember them, I'm going to write down some of his stories, the way I remember them told. Realize that now the stories have been through at least two filters, and any resemblance to the truth is irrelevant.
Robert's Pop
Robert (Papa's cousin) was left-handed in school in a time when being left-handed made people suspect you were the devil's minion. This was North Carolina, the south, where superstition was the Bible God's-honest truth. The accents can only be described as slow o's and tongues lazily skipping syllables and hot hound dogs on the front porch softly bellerin' for their supper.
For the most part Robert was a good boy, but every once in a while he acted out in class. One day Robert was sent to the principal's office for punishment and received a leather strap across his backside. He came home bruised and welted.
The next day Robert's Pop visited the principal. He walked into the wood-paneled office, sweltering already in the morning sun slanting in from the tall windows. The principal sat at his desk, and Robert's Pop closed the door behind him. He pulled out his shotgun. "If you ever touch my boy again," he said, while aiming the loaded gun straight at the principal's head, "I will kill you."
No one ever laid a finger on Robert again.
Robert's Pop
Robert (Papa's cousin) was left-handed in school in a time when being left-handed made people suspect you were the devil's minion. This was North Carolina, the south, where superstition was the Bible God's-honest truth. The accents can only be described as slow o's and tongues lazily skipping syllables and hot hound dogs on the front porch softly bellerin' for their supper.
For the most part Robert was a good boy, but every once in a while he acted out in class. One day Robert was sent to the principal's office for punishment and received a leather strap across his backside. He came home bruised and welted.
The next day Robert's Pop visited the principal. He walked into the wood-paneled office, sweltering already in the morning sun slanting in from the tall windows. The principal sat at his desk, and Robert's Pop closed the door behind him. He pulled out his shotgun. "If you ever touch my boy again," he said, while aiming the loaded gun straight at the principal's head, "I will kill you."
No one ever laid a finger on Robert again.
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