Excised Heritage - Chapter 2

     Suzy felt the vibration of the garage door opening below her and knew that Sam was home.

She waited until he came upstairs to her in her quilting room rather than take a mother-run to see how the in-office surgery went. Only taking a quick glance up to see her son at the doorway, she tried to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible to avoid sounding too smothering to her still growing adult son.

     “Hi, son. How did it go?”

     “Mom, this sucks! I could hear every piece of cartilage crunching under his knife, and I could hear every stitch going in and out my ear; the thread even screeched as he pulled it through. The Novocain was useless, and it still hurts.”

     At that, Suzy couldn’t help but stop her own needlework, and rose to give her son a gentle silent hug.

     “You know the worse thing? Sims said that there is no guarantee that it won’t grow back. I know he was the best, and he knows a lot about keloids.  Been doing this kind of surgery where there have been so many docs that wouldn’t touch ‘em.  But the weird thing is the stuff he told me about them.  He said that they mostly grow on black people. “

     “I had heard that.”

     “Mom, why would we have them then?”

     Suzy shrugged and walked back over to her quilting frame.  Taking the taut sandwich of material into her lap, she picked up the needle once again only glancing quickly at the bump in her own wrist.  “You, know Sam, because you never even knew your grandparents on my side, I have always wanted to get information about them down for you and your sister.  I know so little and no older relatives are around to fill me in. Your dad was the late child with siblings in their 20’s when he was born. Kind of a shameful thing back then.  Dad gave me a few tidbits, and I have made those into stories for you, but I really don’t have much in the fact department.  Besides, I’ve learned that most history is created by the winners not the losers, and the stories will exalt the winners and their families more than give any credit to the downtrodden. Then in recent years, it was cool to create exposés of the inhumanities…  ”

     “Mom, Mom, what are you getting at? You’re not answering my question. “

     Suzy looked up from the tiny handstitching and smiled, “Sorry, son, still in teacher mode, I guess.  What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any clue because the clues are hidden. Something shameful would never be written down.  A late in life birth would have been shameful, or mental illness, any disability, or possibly some negroid features in a Caucasian family might bring up side comments like “they must have had a Nig…:” Her words choked in her mouth.  “Oh my, I haven’t thought of that phrase in such a long time.”

      Sam looked confused, and she caught his expression. “Growing up in the ‘60’s and ‘70s surely makes me sensitive to saying that word out loud, and I remember many heated discussions with my dad about it. I never considered him a bigot, but he was a product of his time.”

     “Mom, you’re trying to nigger aren’t you?”

     Suzy was shocked at her son’s flippant behavior to even say “THE N WORD” out loud.  Even out of context it chilled her to hear it. “Yes, I am. The phrase ends with … in the woodpile…ever hear that?

     “Not really, but I can get the meaning pretty easily.”

     “Well, back to the keloid question, all I can say is that it’s entirely possible. Your grandfather’s, my dad’s family was from Tennessee before moving to Texas at the turn of the century, and I have no way of figuring that out.  The country is a big melting pot and the backdoor stories aren’t in the history books or even family bibles.”

     “Mom, would it make any difference if it was true?

     “I suppose not.  You?”

     “No, but I would like to know. Even with today’s technology and research, I would think it would be easy to find out more. “

     “Believe me I have tried. When Chris died your great uncle gave me a software program to trace my roots.  Kind of a weird sympathy gift I thought at first, but I did start digging.  Then I got hooked and it was an addiction to keep looking.   I eventually had to stop because it was taking up all my time.  I had hit a “brick wall” as they say in the genealogy world.  Along the way I found so many relatives that I felt a connection to. Many times I wondered if they experienced the same feelings that I have felt. That’s when the stories started to flow. “

     “What stories? I didn’t know you had written anything.”

    Oh, my great reader.  Oddly no one in the family seems to care about these so I have just stashed them away until you are ready for them. Probably after I’m gone.   I guess it’s my way of saying, I was here and that  I mattered  - something that I feel all those ancestors deserve, too.  Maybe I’m doing it a little for Chris, too.  So many of those ancestors were young like Chris when they died.  I want to know that they mattered more than what kind of heritage they hold.  What kind of dilemmas, challenges, and heartaches they had like we have had.  Maybe we can learn from them. At least know that the past is nothing to fear any more than the future.  If it helps anyone to stop living in any kind of fear, it’s got to be worth it.”

    "Okay, but I think you need to find out the heritage stuff, too.  Maybe you’ll find out about your hearing loss, or heart attacks, or even the depression issues that seem to run all over this family."

    "Well, if it keeps you from thinking everything that bad happens because of what’s around you than what is in you, then it might be worth the dig. When you're ready to hear more. I'll tell you. What do you say?"

Excised Heritage

A shift in another direction to what I hope will be a starting point to pull all my family stories together. My youngest son Sam and his recent experience was a catalyst in trying to find out more about my father's ancestors who had eluded me for so long.

       The Novocain had worn off in less than 10 minutes. Sam was beginning to feel every pull and slice of his skin being excised from behind his ear.  Less than 15 minutes before, his first sight was the syringe when he walked into the examining room. Well, I guess this is going to hurt, he said to himself.  The nurse was smiling as if this was an ordinary day, but to Sam, he was about to experience pain that he hoped would not have to be repeated. 

      Earlier the nursing attendant with short spiked hair and gapping teeth instructed him to lie flat on his stomach with his head turned to the side on the pillow. A cloth was placed over his head, and he was shrouded in a blue darkness unable to see what was taking place.  The small hole in the face cloth exposed his ear and every sound seemed to multiply tenfold.  He heard the door close with little more than a mumble from the attendant as she left the room. He was alone.

      He heard  the door open a few minutes later, but he was sure it had been a half an hour. The doctor’s soothing voice of mundane conversation starters did little to relax him, but he played along, answering the irrelevant questions. "So what do you do, Sam? I hear your Dad broke his ankle, just like I did. When are you getting married now? How about that new Broncos Quarterback.?  Do you think he has the right stuff?"

      The clattering on the surgical tray left little to the imagination and then the doctor said, you may feel a little prick but it won’t last long. Little does he know, Sam thought.  A little prick?  He had known a lot of those.  He had really hoped that this time the stupor would take hold, and this great numbing drug would work on him.  The syringe’s needle pierced  his earlobe, not unlike the initial piercing he had done many years before, but this time he could hear the liquid swishing around inside his earlobe as the cold burn entered his head with an evil rush under his skin.  Whatever it was that contradicted the expected reaction in his body, he was resistant to its power.  Novocain was useless after less than the time it took for the doctor to pick up his scalpel.  Sam’s hoping was useless, too.  Even though he didn’t feel this first slice under the keloid scar, the awakening nerve endings started to feel the exposure to the air, and they flashed instant messages to his brain that the violation to their existence was threatened. The throbbing continued as the scalpel was charting its course though the fleshy mass that had grown behind his ear to double the size of the lobe.

       Last year he had decided he could just whack it off himself as it just hung by a small flap of skin. It couldn’t be worse that the piercing itself. After numbing his earlobe with two cubes of ice, he snipped at the attached appendage, and it had easily fallen off. The bleeding was more excessive than any head wound he had ever seen, but with a pressure  bandage applied by Chrissy, it eventually stopped. No big deal and easily forgotten, until two months later, the tiny scar became a welt overnight and within 6 months, the fleshy lobe had morphed into a lump twice the original size of the one he thought he had killed. It looked like a cancerous tumor growing outside his body. There were to be no more self-healing chances, he had to see Doc Sims.

     To ward off the pain Sam talked to the doctor about what he was actually doing, trying to mask each stabbing pain but the evidence was accented in the pitch of his voice.

     “Say Doc, what makes these kinds of scars anyway? I’ve got lots of friends with piercing and tats that don’t do this.” Sam felt the suture needle enter one side and the cat-gut thread singing through the needle-made hole, and the needle hitting its mark on the other side of the wound to draw the skin together for its first stitch.

     “How many black friends do you have, Sam?"  

What kind of bigoted question is that, man?  “What’s that got to do with anything, Doc? The second suture began in making the second stitch.

     “Keloids are predominately an African-American syndrome.  After an initial trauma to the subdural layer of skin, as the body tries to heal itself, it seems to take on a super healing process and grows the scar faster and larger than necessary. “  Needle, screeching thread, tie off number three.

     Sam blinked back the pain induced tears under the blue shroud. “But why me then?”

    “Sam, America is a pretty good melting pot of all cultures and races. I’m sure there was probably a bit of color mixing all along its history. It’s quite probable that there is some black heritage running through your veins.  Ever talk to your folks about it?  “Dr. Sims finished with the 3^rd and 4^th stitches.

     "Not really, but it sure seems unlikely on my dad’s side. I’ve heard every cowboy, Irish, outlaw story at least a dozen times over.  But my mom has always been pretty quiet about her family. Both her parents died in their 50’s and she and dad had moved to Wyoming . I really only hear a little bit about her folks."

     Five more agonizing stitches later, Sam shook hands with the doctor and headed for home.  He tried to mask the pain from his throbbing earlobe by jacking up the rap on the radio to a deafening pitch.  All that did was to let the pain throb to the music as he tried to take in the information the doctor had just told him. Next stop, Mom's house.

A Boy’s Dreams on Linen

I had such in-depth and poignant comments posted on the story about my dad, that I thought it was time to share the only little boy picture I have of him. While my mother was the true artist, and my sister has followed suit, Max had a hidden talent for drawing that showed up at a very early age. He just never had the desire to overshadow Mom's talents, so we never heard about them. I think I was in college when I came across three pieces of linen with pictures drawn in crayola. Dad told me that he had drawn them at school when he was about 11 years old.  I marveled at the detail and depth he created on those linen pieces. I think the picture of him was when he was about seven or eight, close to the time of his father's death.

The teacher tapes the flaxen linen to his desk and walks away.

Borders stretched to the edge of the school desk.

He lines up the crayons

Like waxen soldiers awaiting

The call to arms.

His head dances with his dead daddy’s dreams

Of the Copeland Street castle,

Erased by a heart’s explosion.

Fearing the stark blank linen,

He squeezes his eyes shut

Like a vice on steel, bursting

Color behind the eyelids.

Muted blues and greens

Cool the burning fires in his brain and

The wishes, dreams and delights of a faraway place appear.

Now he can see.

He picks up the patient blue

Soldier and draws.

Smooth stones line the path to a cottage in the

Linen’s left corner.

A Tough Guy's Christmas Promise

The scream ripped away the comfort of his blanket and his dream. Suddenly, Max was awake and aware that something was not quite right.

"Is it Christmas, already?" He questioned. Waking his thoughts by rolling through a battery of questions to himself, Max rattled off the answers,

"1926.

I'm Max.

I'm seven years old.  No, just turned eight!

My big brother is still sleeping next to me.

I'm in my house in Paducah, Texas."

Well, everything seemed in order. He slowly began to lie back down, but then, as before, a scream pierced the air. It was Mama.

"Jack! Jack! Wake up!"

Max scrambled out of bed and down the stairs thinking Santa must be stuck in the chimney. Mama blurred past him on the way to the kitchen. As he stood in a sleepy freeze, he watched her run to the water pump and with one hand begin the pumping motion to bring the slow moving water to the sink spout. In one sweeping second her other hand whipped open the cabinet door and brought out a glass.

As Max watched from the doorway, he saw her grow older. Although she was already fifty-two, he never thought of her as old. Her gray hair was not in it usual bun, but instead, partially covering her face in uneven strands like an old mop. Her robe hung unevenly on her shoulders, and the belt drooped lifelessly by her side.

The breeze cause by her rushing passed him interrupted his thoughts. He finally found his feet and walked to her bedroom door. She stood by the bed. She seemed to hesitate, and then with a piston move of her arm, splashed the whole contents of the water glass on Papa's face. They both hoped . . .expected Papa to jump up spittin' and coughin' and yellin' at Mama that she must be crazy.

The bed didn't move.

Papa didn't move.

The water dripped off his face like tears in a rain shower.

Max's Papa, who could sternly lecture him, give him a fierce thrashing, but gently tousle his hair and wink an eye, would never move again.

His Papa, whose laugh could travel out the kitchen and into the street, would never laugh again.

There was a Christmas morning celebration, because lots of people came over and brought all kinds of delicious food. But instead of the expected laughter, a strange silence hovered only to be interrupted by stifled sobs.

Last Christmas, Max remembered his big brother Jackie hoisting him on his shoulders and bounding down the stairs. The bouncing came to an abrupt stop in front of the Christmas tree. Below was a shimmering pool of brilliantly wrapped packages. The storm of bows and ribbon and wrapping paper echoed in Max's ears as the memory wave brought him back to this day. Why did this Christmas have to be so different?

After getting his hand slapped reaching for an apple dumpling, Max was told to go into the parlor and sit on the piano bench. The scratchy woolen suit that Mama told him to wear gnawed at his skin. The hard leather shoes trapped and cramped his toes.

His sister Elma came in with Little John. They were supposed to be friends. John was his nephew. Little John was seated next to Max.

'You are so prissy," Max mumbled to himself. Six years old and he looked forty.  Little John sat perfectly still. His hair was plastered into place and his fingernails were trimmed and shiny.

Max glanced at his own ragged nails and scraped fingers. Mama's attempts to civilize him usually resulted in her rolling her eyes and shaking her

head in defeat.  He couldn’t help it. As he rubbed the still red bruises on his middle knuckle, he remembered how good it felt to punch Joey Thompson yesterday when he had said Max’s momma looked like an old granny. After bloodying his nose and mouth, just a little, Max made him take it back. Which he did, knowing Max had more to give.

     Little John nudged him back to the present.

“My Grandpappa’s dead!”

“GRANDpappa? That was my papa! I’m only two year older than you and that’s my daddy!”

Confusion flushed both their faces. One man, two little boys. A grandfather to one and a father to the other?

Max was just about to tell Little John that he didn’t know what he was talking about, when a familiar smell snatched his attention. His sister Rose had arrived with her boyfriend, Edgar. Nothing, not even an easy-win argument with that little priss would keep Max from his Rosie. Before she could completely get into the doorway, he had flown into her arms and buried his face into the side of her Evening in Paris neck.

Rosy always carried the aroma of flowers about her. He wondered if she would ever smell like flour or soap or bleach like Mama.  He really believed that’s why she was called Rose. For the first time today, the scenes, the scents and the feel was finally right.

“Say now, Maxy, I’ve come back home. It’s okay. Don’t you worry about a thing.”  Tears were glistening in her eyes, and Max began to feel angry and unhappy at the same time.

As Max sat and dosed on Rose’s lap that afternoon, he listened to the bits and pieces of conversation that swirled around the room like the smoke from all the men’s pipes and cigars. Harsh and pungent at first, and then dissolving into resignation.

“Why didn’t she call the doctor right away?...I hear that the store is in trouble….You and Edgar just can’t get married next week, not now…Momma and Maxy won’t be able to stay here very long…You can’t expect me to watch over them; John is too much of a handful as it is …Well, somehow, things will have to work out”…

Later that evening, Max was sent to the back bedroom to play with  Little John.  Reluctantly, he accepted the new chore. The play drifted into one of Little John’s “Know-It-All” conversations.

“My mommy says you and Grandmother have to leave here.”

“You don’t know nothin’, Johnny.”

“Uh-huh! I bet you and Grandmother won’t even live together anymore. Mommy said so.”

“Well, She don’t know nothing either! I’d never leave Mama, Jackie, or Rosy! They’re my family, and families don’t get split up.!

“My Mommy is your family and she doesn’t live here.”

Anger and fear battled inside Max’s head while John ran out of the room. He yelled back to have the last word and maybe more so to convince himself,

“Anyway, when I grow up, I’m never going to die! And even if I do, I’m not going until all my kids are grow’d up. I’m going to have a big family, but nothing is going to separate us. We’ll always be together. Just you wait and see.”

Max kept his promise, at least until November, 1980 at the too young age of 62 he let go of his four grown children to once again join the love of his life.  Although the four of us have rarely lived near each other, our closeness is one that never makes the miles separate us.

Rosannah's Dogwood

Before Rosannah Counts Rutledge was 25 she had given birth to six children and would have three more after that. By the time she was 40 she was a widow with five of her nine children still at home. When she dies of malaria five years later in 1879, her youngest, eleven-year-old  Jack, my grandfather, will be raised by his older sisters a few miles away in Lincoln County, Smithland, Tennesse .   I can only imagine what this woman, pregnant with my grandfather had to endure reflecting on her circumstances in 1867 as she stood by a dogwood tree.

      Even as a sapling, the Cornus Florida L will flower and bear fruit.  As the legend goes the once tall, straight dogwood was once used as timber. But when the lumber was used to make the fateful crucifix, The Lord Almighty promised that it would never again grow large enough to serve that purpose.  As a symbol of that promise, in the springtime the Flowering Dogwood bracts individually bear the shaped image of the cross and nails of Calvary.  The full crown of whitened plumage provides a delicate respite of color among the forest evergreens. A small trail of like foliage is in the forest path but this one seems to have ventured farther toward the river.  Full grown it will stand fifteen feet tall and bow its head over the river. How this one dogwood was able to grow by the water’s edge could be left to divine providence.

       It sways in the breeze to the rhythm of the flowing waters of the Elk River.  By fall the flowers will be gone and replaced by the purple magenta fruit and leaves. Although its fruit is poisonous to humans, it is a sustaining force for wildlife. The downy woodpecker will thrive on its berries, and the trunk will hold a hidden nest.  As it grows, the rough, but thin bark becomes a healing elixir to break a fever when she boils it into a tea. Little does she know that the tiny holes made by the waspy borer is evidence of the insect’s urge to procreate, and at the same time condemns this tree to an early demise.

       It’s summer 1867. The house is on the other side of the river and the dogwood can’t be seen from the yard. Every day on the way to the Old Salem’s Emporium to sell her eggs, she has to follow the forest path toward the bridge to take in the sight.  The sounds of the surrounding forest invade her ears as a simple high pitched buzzing.  The summer flow could have been mild and pleasant if she did not carry such a heavy burden of thought.  The birds overhead in the pine trees sing warning songs to each other as she walks under their protected nests.  Crossing the bridge, she would glance longingly at the broken dogwood tree hanging over the river bank.  It was a comforting piece of agony that she held onto.  There was talk that the men would eventually cut down the dangerous eyesore, but she silently hoped that they would just let it be.  Why keep the reminder there?  She really couldn't explain it; she just wanted to keep seeing it.

      On this particular day, Rosannah stops at the bank of the Elk River, feeling the soreness of her back intensify as she stands longer. Why did she stop here? Was it just a year ago her world shattered?  No, it’s even been longer, but why come here now? Is it going to relieve her sorrow to see the empty space where that little one last stood?

      What a horrible year it has been. She thought she had seen her share of death. Her mother gone before she was 15. Two brothers destroyed by this horrible war that won’t seem to end. Those lost loved ones could be explained as the natural order of things, but Annis? Just a stupid accident. What had she done wrong?

      The river isn't even blue, but a murky muddy red instead. It's not as fast as it was that dreadful day, but its power is still there.  Evil power? Fateful power?  Or just a sad accident? No rhyme or reason, it just happened. It would have been so easy, so comforting to just give up and fall in.  But she has many other children to care for.  When has she had time to grieve by herself?  Annis was a bright child, but even at the age of 5 seemed so prone to a moody darkness like her father, Nelson.

       Nelson seemed to just plod on after the accident. Rose knew however that he was really frozen by the loss of his daughter, and was able to just keep his anger penned inside.  While she outwardly cried in every private moment she could chisel out of the day, it at least helped her release the pain of not knowing what the last moments of her little girl’s life had been...

       The thunder didn’t frighten Annis. She was used to walking in the soft summer rains, and in fact, loved the gentle little taps on her face and hands.  Her wet dress however was becoming heavier, and she knew she should leave her magic forest and get home. She would have to leave her mudpies decorated with the red fruits for the downy woodpeckers nesting above.  The thunder was more vibration than sound. She could feel the wet slippery ground quiver with each thunderous invasion, but to her ears it was little more than a soft thumping sound.

      Her mother’s voice calling had no chance of reaching her ears in the sudden summer deluge that surrounded her.  She continued to head for the river bank.  The lightening was something different. The bright strikes blinded her momentarily, losing her footing, she slipped in the red mud. She grabbed a lower limb of the dogwood tree, crying out for John or George, but they had long ago left her to her imaginary castle before the clouds even gathered. “Mommy! Mommy!! Help!”

      As it had aged over the years, the trunk of the dogwood had grown thicker, but the holes in the bark showed how the ravaging borers had killed it from the inside out. It was only a shell of its former self.  Still standing tall but weaker each day, she could not recognize it as the death trap it had become. It could not even carry her tiny weight, and the trunk cracks. Little Annis Rutledge falls onto the muddy bank’s edge.

      Her little fingers were holding tight to a root, and she pulled with all her might to try to stand up.  The mud just gave way to the advancing rain and became a small rivulet that pulled at her soaked smocked pinafore as it created its new path to the river.  Little hands are not meant to grip for long and in only a moment Annis was swept into the rising river and it carried her away. Water seared her lungs as it rushed into her mouth and down her throat. A huge water-soaked log rushed by her too fast to grab, and her head hit one of its outstretched limbs.  The cold comfort of darkness shrouded her mind and her body, and the fear and struggle was over.

      The familiar quickening in Rosannah’s abdomen shoved her mind back to the present. So many babies. Will it be different this time? Fevers, wars, accidents. It really doesn’t stop. But she won’t stop either. Life is for the living, and she resolves to press on. What little faith she has, she will hang on to it never really letting anyone know the dark hole in her heart. What purpose would it serve to have them turn on her if they knew she couldn’t believe in God’s grace anymore? Her God IS, but he doesn’t control her every move or thought, or anyone else’s in this world. She glances at the fallen dogwood.  The jagged trunk is wet. It weeps. Yes, God IS. HE too weeps with her.

     The men eventually come to the edge of the river to release the carcass of the tree leaving a nine inch stump. They may not understand that the natural capillaries in the bark will draw the sap and water through the roots and up the existing trunk even though it is no longer alive. Because the roots touch the bank of the river, the bark channels the water up the exiting trunk, and the stump still weeps.

The Choice

 His foot ached, but he knew by the itch that it was healing, and he released the pain from his mind.  If only he could release all pain that way.  The Coach had taught him that pain trick playing football last fall, and he couldn't remember how many times he had put it to use.  Coach had helped in so many ways since he took him in last year.  He owed a lot to Coach.
   But this summer he felt a pull to go see her. Getting that job in Hadley's Ice House last month was a stroke of luck. If he had only not slipped and cut his foot so badly.  He would have to use his thinking as well as what little money he had earned.  Jumping on the freight train in the Lubbock backlot, he had spent five days avoiding the patrols and catching bits of food until he made  it to Georgia.
Now, sharing a meal of rabbit and canned beans with a "trav'ling man" he had to figure a way to get to Lakeland, Florida.  Shifting his sixteen-year-old boy/man frame on the hard ground, itch and ache pushed to the back of his mind, Max mulled over the old hobo's warning..." don't you git caught hitchhiking here in Georgia now, boy. They'll slap yall on a chain-gang 'fore ya knowd what hit ya."
Later, while the old  man slept, Max pulled off his shoe, unwrapped his foot, pulling the few dollars he had between the bandages and glanced at the healing gash that stretched across the tender arch.  In the dim light of the glowing coals, he counted out six five dollar bills and three ones.   He wanted to save most of it to buy a suit, but maybe he could squeeze out enough to get a bus ticket, too.  With his mind eased a bit, he wrapped up the money and the foot as carefully as a skilled doctor, and stretched out to get a few hours of sleep before daybreak.
    Walking up the old wooden steps and on to the white Southern porch, Max proudly brushed off his new khaki turn-ups and straightened the cotton argyle sweater over his old shirt.  Even with the bus ticket, new pants and sweater he had managed to still have four dollars and thirty-three cents.
     The twisting door chime felt cold to his fingers and echoed a chilling shrill in his ears. Standing tall in the shade of the giant magnolia tree, he waited.
Her familiar step on the wooden floorboards replaced the chime's screeching echo.  Two whole years and he could still identify her short, quick step.
    "Hi,   Mom!"
     A  look of surprise, love and confusion crowded her prim lady-like features before the recognition registered.  The screen  door flew open. The pale crepe-soft cheek caressed the tanned,  peach-fuzzy face.  Embracing her last child, she closed her eyes to soak in the touch that she could only remember as her own hand on her own cheek. Lingering...re-memorizing. Hold tight.       Her arms felt the newly emerged  muscles in his back and shoulders.  Pulling him to arms length she spoke through her tears,   "Oh,  son, you've grown so much.   How did you get here?"
    "By  bus, Momma.  Surprised?"
    "Well, yes.I just didn't expect you to come all this way."
    Embarrassed  by  her smothering perusal,  the  uncomfortable heat outside  was beginning to rub on his collar and  he  sought for something else to say,  "How's  Poppa Copeland?"
    Her soft pillow body stiffened, "Fine.  But he  really doesn't know people when he sees them.   Sometimes  he  still thinks  I'm a little girl,  or even your Grammy Copeland.   His tirades are pretty fierce and then he'll  just float off into some far off place  and I just let him be. But, here now, come on in.  It's  hotter'nblazes out there."
    Unsteadily,  Max  entered  the  house,  the screen door snapping shut behind him as Susan led her  son to the kitchen.  Pulling out a chair from the center table she invited him to sit.  "Would  you like  some  lemonade? The ice man just  left. Want  some chipped  ice,  too?   Feeling a quick jab on the sole of his foot, Max accepted with a polite,  "Yes'M."  As she busied herself  making the drink, an air of uncomfortable silence hung over the kitchen like frosty frozen air.
     "Momma,   when do you think you might be coming back?"
     The graying tendrils, escaping the hair combs hid her eyes.
     "Son, I'd really like to, but Poppa's just not well enough for me to leave.   He needs me."
His teeth  bit his retorting remark on his tongue, tasting the bitterness in his mouth rather  than hearing it. "Well, do you think I could stay awhile?  School doesn't start for six  more weeks?"
     "Well, I'll ask Poppa, son. We'll see what he says, OK?"
From the upstairs Max and his mother heard the roar of  Poppa's voice booming his demand for attention.
"Susie, who's down  there?  I hear voices.  Who's in my house?"
Susan gave her son a fearful look and without excusing herself pulled away from the table to make her way up the stairs to her father's room.Max heard the voices exchanging booming demands and meek explanations...
    "Who is that man down there?  .Is he coming to take you away? 1 told you, NO suitors in this house...don't you give me your lip, child. Susie, you get him outta here, or I'll take the situation into my own hands, do you hear?
    Although the voices were mutely mingled in conflicting anger and beseeching submission, Max clearly heard the continual click and spin of a gun ...click...spin...click...spin...
He jumped in horror at the  sound, but the protective instinct sent him through the unfamiliar hallway to the foot of the stairs.  He could  see his mother slowly backing out of the upstairs bedroom soothingly crooning, "OK, Poppa.  I'll tell him. I'll  tell him."
     She turned to face her son at the bottom of the stairs and her descending steps made the floor boards emit faint screams of rejection as he anticipated her words. She stopped on the center step, as if she had lost her direction.  An attempted glance to her son fell to the comfort of the icy blue carpet on the steps. "Max, he's not well. He just doesn't know who you are.  I don't know how to get through to him."  Her eyes drifted up to the continual faint click-spin above their heads.  She turned back to her son, but the confusing indecision forced her eyes downward.
    Max could sense the  same failing fear a half life ago when Daddy died, everyone else grown up, moved away. He and mom left so alone, so destitute.  Buck up, Rut. It's your move, he  told himself.  "Mom, I think I'd better go."
     Relinquishing a deep, weary breath, Susan nodded releasing more than a sigh, "Do you have bus fare?"
    "Sure, Mom, I'll be fine. You know I will."

The Angel Sister

     "Hey! That's my baby spoon!" I didn't give you permission to use it!" I demanded.
     "Oh, I'm not hurting it.  Besides, aren't you a little old to be worrying about your baby spoon?"
     "Well, don't you think you're a little old to be using it?"  And with that futile attempt as a last word, I stomped off to the solace of my room to mope about one more of the ten-thousand-plus confrontations my sister and I had exchanged for most of our speaking lives.
     Try as she might, poor Mom never could keep us from locking horns over just about any detail of the tiniest proportions.  I always dubiously regarded her comments about God blessing me with a little sister like Janie, so I would have someone to play with.  Surely it must have been a cruel joke to have to unwillingly share my room, my clothes, my privileges, even my boyfriends with this "playmate."   Nothing was too small to argue about.
     But this was really a tiny thing.  A miniature silver baby spoon given to me at birth.  Janie's was with in reach and pretty, too, with a daisy on the handle, that represented a secret symbol we only knew as special to Mom.  But, mine spoke of a legacy, a heritage because of its resemblance to a traditional southern pattern, Old Master's that the "well-established" Southern lady inherited at the time of her "well-established" marriage.  The tiny handle's exquisite curves of filagree and flowers grew even richer and more precious as I grew.
     It's not uncommon for sisters to engage in the age old custom of power play, but Janie seemed to be born for the part. She was constantly pursuing any nerve that would send me into a selfish rage, whittling me into "The Whiny One" and she as "The Innocent Angel."   And only hours later to silently assault me with that incessant, victorious gleam in her eye and devilish grin.
     Reflectively, I'd have to admit her faults were not all necessarily created by her own hand.  She must have inherited the gene of  a recreational food trimmer from our darling dad.  The biggest problem with her desire to snack,. was that she hated to get caught because she would then be the brunt of her sibling's "fat blimp" jokes - a detestable event to be sure.  To justify her snacking, she wouldn't dish out a full serving of ice cream or pudding or custard.  She would only take "just a bite,"  or trim the pie "just a little."  To add insult to injury, she would use the smallest spoon available and quickly drop the spoon into the sink to avoid being caught in the act.  This continued throughout our teenage years - much to the dismay of me finding my precious spoon soiled and thoughtlessly cast aside.
     Mom would try to calm my silly melodramatic rages by saying, "Now, don't sweat the little things, Suzy.  Sisters are more precious than any spoon."
     "Yeah, right, Mom," I would mumble, trying to avoid any more of her "Love Thy Sister" speech.  Deep down I knew she was right.  All her guidance and support had not all gone down the drain.  Janie and I had both developed a strong sense of love for God and demonstrated that love daily with those around us.   We had been hospital volunteers and Vacation Bible School teachers and never hesitated to help anyone in need. We even helped each other with shared chores or homework on rare occasions...until...
      One sad and predictable evening when Janie and I were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner.  The sink was piled with the evening's cast-offs of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green salad.  Bones, celery stalks, potato and carrot peelings littered and covered the the sink; dishes scattered from one end of the counter to the other.
     Of course, we were practicing our usual sisterly encounter of cooperative activity.  The events of  a not so successful school day seemed to pile in on the rest of the sink's slop.  Once again she had gotten the upper hand. This time by clinching a date with a boy I had had my eyes on for weeks.  We were exchanging barbs left and right as the dishes were being piled on the left after the garbage ad been scraped into the right side to eventually be demolished by the disposal. Finally, the dishes were in the dishwasher, and Janie flipped the switch to the disposal.   The sickening gut-wrenching sound of metal chewing metal invaded our ears. .  Simultaneously we reached for the switch to silence the assault. Giving Janie one of my famous "killer" scowls, I gingerly placed my hand into the bowels of the sink, slipping past crushed carrots, limp lettuce, and mashed mush to touch the interloper of the disposal.  My fingers wrapped around the intruder, and I let the sink relinquish its slimy hold on me.  I first noted the recognition, not with my eyes, but at that spot inside  that grabs your stomach at the worst possible place and sends a stinging shock throughout your intestines.  The shattered vision of my feeding my darling future child with my very own heirloom had just been reduced to a jagged mass of silver-black.
     "You really did it this time!" I shrieked and stormed out of the kitchen, not even looking back to see if triumph or remorse had registered on her face.  Her careless and selfish ways had finally rendered me incapable of forgiveness.  It was another notch carved into the wormwood of my heart.  It would be a long time before I knew I would tolerate Janie for more than absolutely necessary.
     A couple of years later on my twentieth birthday, the simple family celebration became a turning point in our relationship.  It would be the building block that would eventually help us cling to each other during our parents' deaths and our trials and tribulations of marriage and motherhood.  The family had gathered for what would beone of the few last times all five of us would be together.  After opening the usual materialistic gifts for a college girl, I came to the last present.  Inside a simple little box, cushioned by a haphazardly folded tissue, lay a tiny silver angel, with her tiny chin pointing up and blowing a tiny trumpet...a declaration of joy and love.  In her art class, Janie had molded this precious creation from the silver of that long forgotten spoon.
     Somehow it wasn't so tiny anymore.

The Storm by Suzanne R. Robinson

Another "snippet" story from my mother's side.  Mom was only 2 years old but it changed the entire fabric of their lives. Knowing this story about my mom's parents has helped me get through some tough spots where I had no control. 


     I find myself peering up toward the clouds.  The imaginary figures and shapes can't be touched, but their presence exists.  Sometimes our truths and memories mingle in and out of these clouds. I begin to see the shape of the beautiful twelve-room house and my mind gathers the pieces of the stories I've heard before. Eldorado, Oklahoma. A father and his sons joining forces to make a farm a family business.. Three Pendley sons marry three Palmer daughters.   Eight hundred acres, one hundred cattle, two large family houses - one is Adolphus's, the other, Cicero's. Raymond must live in town.
     How can a two-year-old perceive the panic of everyone hustling  to the storm cellar that hot August afternoon?   She feels the vibrating floorboards beneath her as Momma runs toward her, picking her up like a sack of flour.  With Rozelle's hand in their mother's vise grip, they all head for the cellar door.  Mavis's tiny arms reach in parallel stiffness over Momma's shoulder toward the cornfields where Daddy and her brothers are trying to harvest the last crop.  Behind them in the southwestern sky looms the heavy black funnel heading toward the house.  She only knows Daddy and brothers are not with her.
     Earlier Mavis had busied herself on the cool front porch on the two-story home. A rag doll and wooden building blocks transformed into a princess and a castle for her five-year-old sister, Rozelle.  Mavis only relished the texture of the doll's dress - pretty, and the challenge of stacking one block on top of another.  Peace with Rozelle by her side. Calm.
     All this child's comfort suddenly ripped away.  Destroyed. Running and grabbing and pushing to be shut away in a dark, musty storm cellar.  Mavis is witless with fear.  Where is Daddy? Where is Carroll ? Where is Taylor?
     In the cornfields Adolphus sees the tornado driving its deadly path toward the house,  hi a single motion he throws his two sons on the horse, and with a slap on her dappled rump, the mare carries them toward the barn.  Adolphus's feet answer before his mind registers, "I've got to get to the house. I've got to beat the tornado."   He flies through the rows, the leaves, stalks and husks ripping at his face.
     By the time he reaches the storm cellar door, the tornado is tearing through the fields. He screams into the cellar pit, "Emma, Emma, is everyone here?"  Once her familiar voice reaches his ears, he turns to seal in himself and his family from the raging anger outside.   Focusing his sand-blistered eyes on his wife, small, worn, and fighting her own panic, he hears her urgent reassurance through the darkness, "It's OK.  We're all safe, now."  The deafening roar outside batters their ears with Satan's cacophony.
     How does a man continue to hold on to his strength and courage when he opens that cellar door?  The push to open it takes the strength of the two young boys and their father to finally free the family from their safe prison.  Emma and Adolphus step out into the yard.
     The hail and rain and wind had moved on and the sun spread its rays to the torn earth once again.  The smell of the wet ground encourages Mavis to bravely toddle up the rough cellar steps on her own. Wet squishy mud puddles invite her feet and hands to play.   The rest of the children emerge from the cellar leaving their fears inside the dark womb. The tall man and the tiny woman walk to the edge of the yard.  The funnel had twisted its tail and turned away from the house but splintered the barn into a pile of sticks.  In tandem their heads turned toward the field.  The last chance feeder crop lay flat, trampled by the hail.
His shoulders, square with inherited pride, quiver from the force to keep them firm.  Suddenly aware of his unnatural absence of breathing, he slowly releases the fearful lung air using every ounce of strength to keep the exhaled breath from spewing forth in racking sobs.
     On a snowy 1923 Christmas day, the First National Bank of Eldorado foreclosed on the Pendley Farm, taking the two houses, the land, the cattle, and a car to pay the $4000 loan. The families were left with two wagons, two horses, four head of cattle, 12 chickens, and two mattresses. The day after Christmas they load up the wagons and head for West Texas to start all over again.
     My cloud is breaking into a whisper of white and blue, and I can no longer see the image, but my soul looks up to capture and hold tightly the essence of memory that remains in my bones.   The clouds will return, creating more shapes and memories.

Aunt Elma

    I was always compared to Elma.  My sister Janie, with her bubbly cute personality, was always considered a darling miniature of our favorite aunt, Rose. But, my moodiness would bring forth the insulting remarks, "You sound just like Elma."   How dare anyone think I was anything like that sourpuss!
    Elma was married to Walter, and they had only one son, John.  I always wondered how, though.  I couldn't even imagine them stealing mad passionate looks at each other under any circumstances.  Love and babies were supposed to go together, but I think Elma and Walter must have given up on both on the first try.
Elma and Walter's house was prefabricated to their personalities.   I think the house might have been a duplex, because I remember two doors with a stone arch over each entry.  We would always enter the right side; the left remained closed. Inside the door, stairs led up, but to what, I don't know. Twin beds, probably. When we came to visit, we were only allowed to sit in the shadowy living room with Mom and Daddy. We never saw the rest of the house. This room and the hallway to the bathroom had walls lined in books.  Rows upon rows of books.  I remember the overstuffed reading chairs - one for Walter, and one for Elma.  Each chair had its own reading lamp, and each had its own stack of books.  This was my first connection that adults must read things beside newspapers.  Before, I thought books were just for kids. At home, Mom would read my books to me sometimes. I never saw her read her own books.
     Elma was made for frowning.   Her straight gray hair hung in a clean, but shaggy bob that framed her face.  Her tiny eyes and lips were chiseled in a permanent pissed-off expression.   Her shoulders and back scrunched into a tightness that was usually covered in an ivory classic cashmere cardigan with no less than twenty pearl buttons.  Her woolen dresses and fine leather shoes were classic, too.  As a matter of fact, what Katherine Hepburn did for the classic look, Elma Chalk counter-attacked.   I think that the worst part of the whole ensemble must have been the seamed nylons.   Emerging as a budding pre-teen of the pantyhose generation, I just couldn't relate to this straight-seamed, hunched-back, pursed-lipped woman.
But whenever I feel my shoulders drawing in, just the tiniest bit, or the corners of my mouth tightening, all I have to do is remember Elma, and then I smile.

A Slip of a Sip by Suzanne R. Robinson

Losing my parents when I was in my twenties, left me with an appreciation of every little snippet of a story they shared about their families.  That appreciation evolved into an intense desire to develop my roots through "creative non-fiction" if you will.  One such story came from my dad about his grandfather selling a "recipe" to a certain gentleman in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Here is my imagined story from that one snippet.



A Slip of a Sip
Poppa Copeland had a "recipe" for medicinal purposes only, it was used by the entire family for such maladies as in-grown toenail or croup. One thimbleful was all it took to be relieved of the uncontrollable chills of a fever or a simple toothache. When little Ada was teething, her squeals of pain were soothed by Poppa's recipe being gently rubbed on her tender gums. Even the tiny town of Huntsvllle, Tennessee, knew of Poppa's recipe because he sold it in tiny quantities in his specialty store. - The Epicurean's Emporium. Some of his "high-falutin"' customers wanted Poppa to call his tonic the more socially acceptable after dinner "liqueur", but even that sounded too close to the hated "likker" of this predominately dry community. Prohibitioners were getting a little thick in the town and Poppa hated them snooping around his store more than he hated the alcohol itself. One chilly October evening in 1886 Poppa's recipe took
a ironical turn in some hidden history pages.
.
On this fateful October evening, William's partner, Jasper had been invited to dinner to the delight of the entire family. The children always thought he came just to play with them. Only five-foot-two and looking much younger than his thirty-six years, "Uncle" Jasper was always quickly selected over their more stiffly formal father for playtime. This delightful bachelor would either find himself on the floor playing horse for a unsaddled cowboy or his bouncing leg subject to being a bucking bronco for a less courageous cowgirl. Finally William was able to rescue Jasper from the children's hold and led him into the parlor for an after dinner smoke and a touch of Poppa's No.6 01' Time Tonic.
"Thank you, William, this tonic is just what my or knee needs after that bit of a workout."
William leaned back in the parlor's plush green velvet sofa and watched his partner take sips of his new batch of recipe. Finally after five partially successful batches he knew that this No. 6 was the best yet. He was still a bit dubious of this gregarious young man and his risky ways of doing business, however if it hadn't been for some of those risky endeavors Poppa's emporium would not have survived the South's reconstruction years. He knew he owed a lot to Jasper.
Jasper had been peering into his tiny glass goblet of
specialty recipe as if it were a crystal ball. Each sip of the smooth amber liquid excited his tastebuds as well as his entrepreneuring mind.
"Will, you have something different here this time, is that a hint of hickory I detect?"
The corners of William's mouth pulled out to form a hint of a smile. "You know better than that, Jasper. My own wife doesn't know how ! make this."
Slightly acknowledging the admonishment, Jasper shook his head to resist. "But, Will, have you considered going big with this? Cm still working on that distillery idea south of here. That creek water..."
"Now stop right there, son." This is no common "bourbon." I have enough trouble with those pesky prohibitioners at the store. The last thing I need is for them to think that I'm selling 'shine."
"Oh, I didn't intend to give you that idea. I just think WfIItarn Copeland's Old Time Old has a nice ring to it." Jasper's enthusiasm in his voice intensified as he continued. "1 can see the label now. We could even use those new photographs instead of getting an artist to draw your portrait."
William interrupted, "Jasper, what part of NO don't you understand? I'll have no part of having my picture on a "likker" bottle.
The emporium has a reputation to uphold and going into the distillery business is not part of that image." And with a thoughtless flip of the hand he added, "I'd rather sell the recipe."
Jasper jumped to his feet, "I'll buy it."
In the matter of only two seconds a fateful deal had been born. Did Poppa really want to sell a special recipe of his own creation? Were his principles winning over his desire for profit? Whatever the reason, we may never know, but what is for sure Poppa did agree to sell, but not without a few promises from Jasper.
As they were discussing the details, William raised a still nagging concern, "Jasper, it's still gnawing at rny innerds that you would bottle this as a bourbon. It sounds so "common," and you have to admit my recipe is nothing common"
"I couldn't agree with you more, Will. I promise you this is going to be the finest Tennessee whiskey in the land. I'll even get it patented. You can rest assured that Jasper "Jack" Daniel is a man of his word. Are you ready to shake on it?"