Family

He was a sharecropper, or so I’ve been told.  He lived in a large, beautiful house with a large, beautiful family.  My mother, when she speaks of it, usually breaks off in mid-thought and looks at me.  “Do you remember that house?  You were so young when they lost it…”  The question is always the same, and so is the answer:  no.  I don’t remember anything about that house; I was too young when they moved.

I don’t remember anything about him, my grandfather, either.  I have only the words of my parents, and since mom rarely talks about her father, my only real knowledge comes from a story my father tells.

“He loved that house.  It was on the corner of a big farm, and the owner had worked out an arrangement with your Grandpaw where he could live in the house and help farm the land.”  I nod.  I understand sharecropping, half a step from slavery but an honest way for a man to earn a meager living in hard times.  The Depression made callused hands a badge of honor, feed-sack clothes a sign that you were living better than you might.

“Eventually, of course, he got too old and sick to work.”  My father pauses, remembering.  “He was afraid that he would have to move his family, and he didn’t have any place to go.  He went to the landowner and asked him about it.  He was a good man, though, and he told your Grandpaw that after so many years of hard work, he had nothing to worry about.  ‘Y’all can stay in that house as long as I live,’ he said.

“It was sometime after you were born,” looking at me, “you must have been about three or four — the owner died.  His son inherited the property, and he had big plans for it.  Pretty soon your Grandpaw found out he couldn’t live there any more.

“We had the old van by then, so we drove up there to help them move.  The whole time we were there, hauling furniture out the door and driving it to the new place, your Grandpaw just sat in his chair and rocked.  He never lifted a finger to help us, never said a word, just rocked.  When nothing was left but his chair, he stood up, walked out to the van, and buckled up.

“At the new place we unloaded his chair first.  He found a place for it in the living room, and he sat down and started rocking.  We unloaded everything in the van without a word or a bit of help from him.

“He never did recover from losing the old house.  It was just a few months later that he died, and he spent most of it rocking in his chair.”  Mom has been silent this whole time, thinking about a man I know I met, a man who must have held me in his arms, but whom I cannot remember.  I know the house they moved to.  It was a run-down turn-of-the-century house purchased by my cousin, and I remember looking up into an elderly male face against a backdrop of tattered ceiling.  I do not know if that was my grandfather; it may have been.

The only clear memory I have regarding my grandfather takes place after his death — how long after, I can’t say.  I was sitting on the back porch steps, crying, because my young mind (how young?  4?  6?) had realized my few memories of my grandfather would be lost to me by adulthood.  I buried my head in my arms, sobbing. 

I was right:  the memory of that realization is burned into my mind, but the memory of my mother’s father is only a shadow… perhaps less.That must have been my first glimmer of understanding about death.  All of my grandparents are gone, now, and I don’t fully understand it yet.

* For those interested in the Depression, you’ll be doing yourselves a favor to stop by exit78.com and look at Mike Goad’s “Eyes of the Great Depression” series.  My favorite is #004.

We seem but to linger in manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they vanish out of memory ere we learn the language. — Henry David Thoreau

We’re back.

Our late-honeymoon trip to Pigeon Forge was quite memorable.  The theme of the trip, apparently, was “apples.”

We stayed in a cabin called “Apple Blossom” by the rental company.  Ironically, I didn’t notice any apple blossoms anywhere in the decor… but with apple doorknobs, quilts, knickknacks, and a gigantic apple statue scattered in and around the cabin, I think it may have earned at least half of its name.

Then one morning we discovered a whole cluster of shops and restaurants named Apple this-or-that… the Apple Barn, the Applewood Farmhouse, and so forth.  The Farmhouse served what might be the best breakfast in Sevier County, where the primary (and almost the only) source of income is the tourist trade.  While seemingly nine out of ten restaurants seemed to have either “Pancake” or “Flapjack” (or, occasionally, both) in the name, the Applewood Farmhouse was a breath of fresh, appley air.

The first thing we noticed is that, in comparison to our cabin’s decor, the restaurant’s interior was virtually apple-free.

The second thing we noticed was the huge basket of apple fritters plunked down in front of us by the waitress.

What is a fritter, anyway?  Whatever it is, these were GOOD.

The third thing we noticed was that the complimentary juice wasn’t orange juice.  Rather, it was a blend of pineapple, lemon, orange, and… you guessed it… apple.  It was also quite tasty.

The fourth and final thing we noticed was the amazingly good food served up for breakfast — some of which didn’t actually contain fruit.

We really must go back.

More details in later posts, probably.

Happy New Year.  I’ll get back to my regular blogging activities now that my schedule has returned to the routine.  Oh, and photos will arrive in good time (we didn’t take many, but the good ones are all on old-fashioned film which hasn’t been developed yet).

Us.

I was standing in front of about eighty people, though I was not facing them, and I was wearing a rented suit, black, with white shirt and teal tie, and I was almost the guest of honor. 

The real guest of honor would come walking up the aisle any second. 

To my right, on either side of a fieldstone wall, were high windows, floor to ceiling, overlooking a patch of woods still bearing some of its autumn glory. 

To my left were two families waiting to be joined together. 

The pianist played beautifully but subtly, letting the moment happen without interfering. 

I tried to remember that breathing slowly and evenly reduced the chance of fainting.  I tried to remember to avoid the deer-in-headlights expression that I could feel just beneath the surface.  I tried not to remember that the wedding I was attending was mine. 

Ours. 

The pianist paused, the church fell silent, and then, with the first few notes of Vivaldi’s “La primavera” just beginning to ascend to the high ceiling, she appeared.

I forgot how to breathe.  My heart forgot how to beat… I could feel it stop, hesitate, shiver with excitement, and finally — just in time — step back into its now-hastened rhythm. 

I don’t know whether my gasp was audible.  I do know that to feel air swelling my lungs, to feel my heart pounding in my chest, and to see my bride proceeding up the aisle were the sweetest yet most terrifying sensations I have ever experienced.

She was perfect.

I nearly had tears spilling from my eyes even before she came close enough to see them.  When she stood not-quite-arm’s-length in front of me and I repeated my vows, I could barely see her.  How I kept raw emotion from spilling down my cheeks, I’ll never know.  And when her voice broke during her vows, there was barely a dry cheek in the building, although we — still — managed to contain our own tears, somehow.

We did cry, later.

(She is still perfect.) 

Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself… — Ephesians 5:33

Good things come...

Patience is not a virtue I often witness in people these days.  Our instant-gratification culture has eliminated the need for patience in so many ways that we rarely practice it at all; combine our impatience with our increasing selfishness and the results can be devastating.

In my college classes we sometimes discussed a method of studying the ability to delay gratification.  A child would be placed in a room, sitting at a table.  On the table were a handful of M&Ms.  The child was told by the researcher that he would be left alone for several minutes, and if the M&Ms were still on the table when the researcher returned, the child would be rewarded with more.  If the child grabbed the M&Ms while the researcher was gone, there would be no reward. 

Once the researcher left the room, hidden cameras recorded the child’s actions.  Some children were grabbers; some were waiters. 

Most of the students I teach, I feel certain, would be grabbers. 

So. 

I must have been about ten years old when my grandmother waved me over to the easy chair where she had lately spent all of her time. 

“Take this,” she whispered.  I had to strain to hear her, but I knew that she was speaking as loudly as she could.  She handed me a twenty-dollar bill with one shaking hand.  “This is for your graduation.”  She looked at me.  I was obviously confused.  “I won’t be able to see you graduate,” she explained, leaning back and closing her eyes. 

When I got home, I put the bill in the top drawer of the chest in my bedroom… the same drawer where I kept bicentennial quarters, the occasional Canadian coin that a distracted shopkeeper might give in change, and my favorite pirate ring. 

I didn’t touch it again for three years. 

When I was thirteen, I came home from school one day to find that my mother had locked herself in the bedroom.  Dad was in the kitchen, sipping coffee — rare for a man who almost never drinks it.  He placed his mug on the table with the patient care he uses for every action.  “Your grandmother passed away today,” he said, making direct eye contact. 

I think my mouth fell open at the blunt statement.  After a moment, I found my voice.  “Which one?” I asked. 

“Your mother’s mother.”  He cleared his throat.  “We’ll be going up there tomorrow night for visitation.” 

That was all that needed to be said.  He returned to his coffee, and I went back to my room.  I opened the top drawer of my chest and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill — the one my grandmother had given me years before.  I sat on my bed, looking at the bill, for several minutes before returning it to the drawer. 

When I was eighteen, I graduated from high school.  On graduation night, after I got home, I pulled out the twenty-dollar bill and put it with the checks, gift cards, and other gifts of congratulations my relatives had sent.  After eight years of waiting, my grandmother’s gift had finally fulfilled its purpose.

We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. — Abraham Lincoln

What a change is here...

The plan went as follows:

1. Rent a new apartment large enough for both of us.
2. While paying the first month’s rent on the new apartment and one last month’s rent on our old, separate ones, gradually move in our belongings.
3. Set up satellite TV and DSL internet at the new apartment.
4. Once enough of my stuff is moved, I begin actually living there while bringing the remainder of my property over at my leisure.
5. Cancel satellite TV and internet at the old apartment.
6. Once her last month ends, move her remaining belongings either to the new apartment or to her parents’ house, which is where she will sleep until our wedding.
7. Get married.
8. Bring her and her luggage to the new apartment and begin a blissful marriage.

This is what is known as a segue:  a smooth transition from one state to another.   Best of all, the wedding was scheduled for November 29, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, so that we’d both have a few days off from work for last-minute details.

Right.

The actual chain of events was more like this:

1. Rent a new apartment large enough for both of us.
2. Spend two months’ rent on all three apartments (hers, mine, and ours).
3. Bring not nearly enough of our stuff to the apartment before I begin living there.
4. Have satellite TV and DSL internet installed, but have absolutely no time to watch TV or set up the internet access for nearly a week, because I’m
5. spending Thanksgiving week working from 7:00 or 8:00 in the morning until after midnight, every day, right up until the night before we
6. get married in a beautiful ceremony with lots of friends and relatives present (more on this in later posts, but it was magnificent).
7. Bring her and her luggage to the new apartment and begin a blissful but very busy marriage.
8. Spend the day after the wedding still trying frantically to empty out my old apartment (again, more on the theme of “why do I own this much stuff” later).

Argh.  The entire week was incredibly stressful, and I nearly fell asleep on the road this morning, and I’ve been saying for about four or five days that I really will get the internet set up today (which is why I haven’t posted in nearly a week), and it hasn’t happened yet… but, you know what?

The wedding was beautiful, my wife (wow) in her wedding gown was absolutely gorgeous (as opposed to merely very, very beautiful, as she is the rest of the time), the catering at the reception was amazing, and this afternoon when I leave school I’ll be going home to the most wonderful and amazing woman in the world.

I am feeling incredibly happy and satisfied right now.

Maybe she’ll make cookies.

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. — Aristotle

(Photo is in public domain.)