The Rooster

Mom couldn't have been more than fourteen the time she beat that rooster with a broom.

They lived in the house at the lower end of the hill. An old worn house, square with a front screened porch and a back door fitted with narrow steps leading into the yard beyond. It was built in the early 1930's, probably for a farmer's hired hand and his family. The whitewash was peeling in many places, and the forest green trim needed to be scraped and sanded and reapplied around the eaves where the water dripped during a rain. The house was built on concrete blocks, much like many other homes in that era, so the air could cool the underside of the house when the summer sun beat down from above. There was no air conditioning, and it was well after they moved out that window units were installed.

The rooster was an old codger, big and red and brown and spurred. He had been around for a number of years, getting meaner with each passing summer. He kept the hens happy and seemed to do okay with most of the adults, but he didn't take too kindly to Mom for some reason.

I remember her telling me on several occasions - those times we'd sit around of an evening telling stories of childhoods in Atlanta when Atlanta was nothing more than a mixture of two lane highways and a Rich's department store with a soda fountain counter - she'd tell us the story of the rooster, how she would always try to go out the front door, not the back, because that rooster still had long spurs, and if the day was hot and the sun was beating down, that rooster would get meaner and attack a pair of legs coming down those steps at the back door.

One day, though, she forgot about the old guy, and went out the back door, down the stairs, and ....*bam!* Mom said it was like getting hit in the legs by a small feathered beast. That rooster had come out from underneath the house and attacked her about the lower legs and calves before she could run or get away or find anything to defend herself. It wasn't the first time, but this was a pretty vicious attack. Apparently the sun had commenced to rotting that rooster's brain, because surely no yard bird with any sense would attack the child of the person who fed it each day.

Mom was always kind of dry with her humor. She'd get you before you knew what happened, and it was always funny to be the last one laughing. She who laughs last...well, you know.

So this time, Mom found a broom, and she started beating that rooster. She told us she swung that broom at the rooster and beat him and beat him and beat him until he was nearly as flat as the dirt she'd beat him in to. Then she beat him some more, to make sure he never spurred her again.

Later, as she was cleaning her face up in the bathroom after a crying jag from all the nasty spurrings she'd gotten, she looked out the bathroom window.

What did she see but the rooster, getting up off the ground. He was peeling himself out of the dirt, one feather at a time, wobbling around in the yard like he'd tipped up the whiskey bottle one time too many. She was pretty sure he would've been dead, but he wasn't.

He never spurred her again, though.

My aunt keeps working, even though she is well past retirement age and draws her monthly social security check. She is my father's twin sister, they being two of six children, all the others girls. Daddy used to tell people that he had five sisters, and they all had a brother.

Life was good for Mom and Dad. They'd raised three kids, saw those three children have children of their own, and watched these growing families venture out into the world to make their own way. Dad was near retirement when their fortieth anniversary came to pass on December 24, 1999. The plan was to go back to Germany. My cousin's husband had given them two buddy passes, as Delta employees are allowed to share, and they were flying over the following summer after Dad retired in the spring.

February came around, and the retirement party took place. Dad had already retired from the military, having served honorably for twenty-three years in the Air Force. We were all so glad that we could see him retire from another job of eighteen plus years where he started at the bottom and worked his way up to upper management. His contributions to this company were well respected and carried on even to this day.

Daddy retired on February 1st. On Valentine's day, he watched the NASCAR races - he was a big fan - then decided he'd go for a walk. His heart gave out on him two blocks up the road, where two young boys in their pre-teens found him lying face down in the road, non-responsive.

One of the boys, a recent CPR class graduate, tried to roll Daddy over in order to perform the CPR he'd learned in boys scouts. But Daddy was too heavy for him; too solid, too everything. He was already gone, as evidenced by the lack of bracing a person does when they fall forward. It was the skinning of his nose and forehead that lead the doctor to believe he never knew what hit him, thus he never braced himself for the fall.

Daddy would've been 62 had he lived ten more days. His heart failed him on Valentine's Day, of all days.

So my aunt, Daddy's twin sister, keeps working. I think she might believe that if she stops, she too, will face the same fate that her brother did.

Innocence Lost

There is a time in every child's life that innocence is lost forever amid the ever-deafening music ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-duming in the ear; sitting in a seat, pushed back as far as possible into its back and hoping beyond hope that by pushing hard enough, maybe just a little bit harder, the chair would move back a row or two. Eyes, round and unblinking, riveted on the screen, too frightened to look away because the knowledge that as soon as the eyes closed or wavered it was going to jump straight out into the audience and eat its way up to you. Squeezing of hands; cringing faces; feet pulled up on the edge of the seat; eyes peaking out from behind vulcan-split fingers; ears attuned to every single nuance of the ever-maddening musical score. Get out of the water! your child's mind screams to the diver.

Suddenly, the music hits a crescendo, the females in the audience start screaming, and a head falls out of the bottom of the boat right into the face of the diver you just tried to send telepathic warnings to.

Jaws. What more can be said? I lost my innocence with that movie; never again would I be a virgin of the horror flick. I was tainted goods, forever more doomed to be scared of anything that went bump in the night, dark hallways, sleeping with the door closed, and squeaky, creaking door hinges. I could no longer go in past a knee deep level in the Gulf of Mexico. Without a doubt I knew Jaws was waiting out there for me, ready to relieve me of my limbs. Swimming in fresh water was the same, until many years later when I realized that sharks didn't like fresh water.

We had gone to the movies, Mom and Dad, my brother Paule and Sister Joi. It was one of those rare family nights out; Daddy had just gotten a promotion along with a raise, and we were being treated with a family night on the town. After a quick dinner of burgers and fries, we went to the Cinco Bayou movie theatre to see "The Apple Dumpling Gang," a harmless, fun-filled Disney flick rated G for the whole family.

With that movie was surprisingly sold out, my parents made the bad mistake of letting my brother pick the movie and, being a boy constantly out to terrorize his sisters, he chose Jaws.

My Mom was sitting between my Dad and my sister, both of them having gotten a really good grip on Mom's hands. Jaws had already visited the midnight swimmer and given her a really good thrashing about; the da-dum, da-dum of the music was already permanently imbedded in the mind of every single person in the movie theatre; and my brother was sitting next to me on the end of the isle, grinning like a crazed loon.

Moving along, it was when the head came out of the bottom of the boat that my Dad squeezed my Mom's hand so tight she thought he'd broke it, until the pain in her other hand overtook that when my sister screamed then promptly stuck the thumb of Mom's other hand in her mouth and bit it.

After the movie, after getting home, my sister and I went to our shared bedroom and sat on the bed all night with the light on. Our feet never hit the floor and our eyes never faltered more than a minute, until the light of day came upon us and we were free from a night's terror.

We have cursed my brother ever since.

Spilled Lonesomeness

The earliest memories I have are of living in Tennessee with Momma and my brother Paule. Daddy was a young man in the Air Force, serving a remote year in a far away country that we could only see on the map. Korea was a foreign place to my brother and me; we couldn't fathom that there was more to the world than the house we lived in and the dirt road it stood on. He left my Mom with two active, energetic toddlers during the hot sultry days of summer in the year 1965, and didn't make it back home until the same dog days of summer a year later. My brother Paule had turned four the January before Daddy left; I wouldn't turn three until the following November.

Looking back, I cannot fathom what our Mom had to endure. She was young yet, still pretty of face with her ever-smiling Elizabeth Taylor eyes, high cheekbones, and full mouth, her figure still curvaceous despite having given birth to the two of us. I remember thinking she was pretty enough to be a movie star on the black and white television we were so lucky to have. I am sure we aged her that year just by virtue of our being.

We lived in a small clapboard rental house in the middle of a long dirt road that I was sure went on forever. Murphy Drive in Smyrna, Tennessee, was all the world to my brother and me. From our vantage point, short as we were, we could see the ends of the world from our front stoop.

There was no air conditioning back then. Summer days always found the front and back doors open so any wind that stirred might bless us with a cross-breeze through the house. Screen doors now are made of aluminum or metal, with glass panes that slide up or down to hold out the elements while letting in the sun. Ours were warped, whitewashed wooden frame screens, each with a hook latch, the screening itself flimsy from being slammed so many times as we ran in or outside during the summers of the year Daddy was gone.

I couldn't have been more than three when it happened, but in my mind's eye I sometimes think it happened just yesterday. I don't know why this memory has stayed with me, anymore than the others, or why it has been so powerful for me. But it haunts me still, because my child's mind still thinks I made Momma cry even though my adult heart knows that she cried because she was lonely for Daddy, not angry with me.

We were playing hide and seek, my brother and I, but I grew tired of the game and decided to explore some of Momma's stuff in the bathroom. She always had a pretty little tin of powder sitting on the back of the commode. When I was extra good she would let me use a little bit of it after a bath, but only with her help. I wanted to smell the powder this day, because it smelled so good. It was that secret Momma smell, the one a well loved child associates with warmth and love, safety and security. Honeysuckles, maybe, or some other soft floral scent. Sometimes, even now, I get a sense of deja vu when I walk through Dillard's; I smell that scent again and it brings Mom back to me as though I were still a wee thing.

I remember taking the powder to Momma's bedroom and valiantly twisting and turning and pulling at the lid. Little did I know then that my three year old hands weren't made to open such grown-up things; but I tried and tried until finally, the lid popped off, so abruptly that it startled me. Out came the powder puff, fluffy and white and smelling like an angel, down towards the floor where surely it would make a mess and I'd be in trouble. Trying for a save, I inadvertently dropped the now-open tin of powder and made one very sweet-smelling mess all over Momma's wooden floor.

I remember squatting down and trying pick up what I could, brushing the remnants beneath the bed. Most of it had spilled out, but my little hands scooped up what they could and dumped it back in the tin. I thought I was nearly done when Momma walked in to the room. I was caught.

Looking back, she wasn't mad at me; Momma didn't yell or punish me or do anything unkind toward me. I don't know - don't remember - if I helped clean the rest of it up or if she did. I do remember her sending me out of the room. "Go watch cartoons with your brother," she told me. Grateful I didn't get a swat on the behind for my mischief, I remember doing as I was told.

And later still - thirty minutes, an hour, I am unsure what amount of time passed - I remember going back to her room, standing at the open doorway, asking her if she wanted to come watch cartoons with me. Bugs Bunny was on, I wanted to tell her. But instead I found her as she lay cross ways on the bed on her stomach, head cradled in her arms, crying. The powder was gone from the floor, the tin on the nightstand beside the bed. All should have been well - Momma wasn't mad at me and cartoons were on the television - but she lay there crying, a soft keening that I hear in my mind to this day.

It still has a powerful hold on me, this memory. Sometimes the power of it is so strong it washes over me like an old fashioned river baptism, drenching my soul in the sorrow of my mother's tears. It was the sound of loneliness, an emotion I didn't recognize until many years later. Summer was passing none too fast and Momma was lonely for my Dad to come home.

It wasn't until years later that I realized how much my Momma loved my Daddy; back then, however, I just knew that Bugs Bunny couldn't make Momma's eyes stop crying on that hot, sweltering Tennessee afternoon.

The Stories

The stories have been floating in my head for more than a decade now, gently tap-tap-tapping against my skull, calling to be let out. Memories swim in my mind, drifting down the river of my bloodstream into the fathomless cavern of my soul, echoing against the walls their unrecorded words. They are the stories of my family, of love and laughter, sorrow and pain. They are the oral histories passed down to me from my mother and father, my aunts and uncles; the nights sitting around the dining room table with the grown-ups, listening with a quiet smile as they reminisced with each other all the adventures of their own childhoods, laughing in to the night, me grinning because these grown-ups were mine. They are the tales of the grandparents, the cousins and nieces and nephews. The stories tell of the lives of my family; family lost to me through the ages of time and distance of land and sea, as well as those closest to me.

They clammer to get out lest they be lost forever.