Anyone could tell exactly where I was. The choking cloud of dust rolled out of the open end of the lean-to beside my daddy's garage. He had given permission for me to use it for a play house and I'd been busy with it from right after breakfast, taking only enough time away from my labors to wipe off my face, wash my hands and wolf down my dinner. I drained the last drop of iced tea from the glass and headed back outside where I was busily deciding where all my furniture would be placed; the bed, here. I billowed out the large scrap of mill cloth from mother's rag bag, and placed it on the cement floor. The kitchen table - an up-ended rickety orange crate, over which I daintily spread a square of red printed gingham.
"Priscilla!"
I heard daddy's call from the back steps and I went flying!
"Get in the car, we're going for a ride."
I knew better than argue or ask any questions. Daddy was to be obeyed. The dark blue '34 Ford sped away from our Duke Power Company house toward town. We passed on without stopping; everything was closed. It was, after all, Sunday. Soon the pavement ended and I saw we were on a narrow, dusty road running straight through a South Georgia swamp.
With the speed my daddy drove, we soon came to a lone wooden house amidst ancient live oaks deeply strung with Spanish Moss. There were a few children playing hopscotch in the sandy yard, but I knew I'd not be allowed to play with them. Daddy parked at the far end of several other dark vehicles and we got out. I didn't see another grownup anywhere but I could hear singing and tambourines chinking as we mounted the creaking wooden steps.
With his hand on my shoulder, we stepped through the door into the front room of someone's house; into a room totally devoid of furniture except for several straight backed chairs aligned against the front wall. I was told to sit in the vacant one on this end.
I was seated next to a large lady with gray-streaked hair which was pulled back tightly into a knot at the back of her head. She nodded and smiled at me. I don't remember if I smiled back or not, but I saw sweat beaded in the fine hairs of her upper lip and was mesmerized by the jiggle of her double chin as she clapped her hands with the rhythm of the music.
Soon the music was over and a man in black pants and white shirt, holding the Holy Bible began to preach. He talked louder and faster as he paced back and forth at the other side of the room beneath a cardboard picture of Jesus thumb-tacked to the wall.
My daddy was among the dozen or so men and women who were standing along the two other walls. In the far corner from where I sat, there were two chicken-wire cages containing very large timber rattlers. Every time the preacher came near, they would coil and rattle.
Before I knew what happened, a lady opened on of the crates and brought out the longest, largest rattler I'd ever seen. It warpped itself in a writhing mass around her upheld arm. She swayed back and forth and then with eyes closed and head thrown back, she spoke in a high chattering voice. Others went forward and took out two more rattlers and began to pass them around to anyone who cared to reach out and take one.
I picked up my bare feet and clamped them on the rung when a rattler was dropped to the floor. It was quickly retrieved and the preacher swung the snake over his head and then piled it atop the Holy Bible.
After some time the shouting began to subside and the sweating preacher became more and more hoarse and finally called on his brother to close with prayer as the rattle snakes were returned to their cages.
Daddy motioned for me to come and I walked with him outside. Standing next to him as he handed the preacher a five dollar bill, I heard him say he never got a chance to put it in the coffee can inside. I saw the other children watching us and I was proud that Daddy could give that much money.
When we arrived home, I was anxious to return to work on my playhouse but mother made me take a bath and get dressed for bed while she fixed supper. After supper I was so disappointed to find she would not let me go back outside. I just wanted to check it one more time to make sure everything was as I had left it. But I had to pack my book satchel and lay out my clothes for school.
Later, in the dark, I fell asleep thinking of what I could find to use for a couple of chairs in my wonderful playhouse.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Package
The small gift-wrapped package was laying conspicuously in the center of my bed when I got home from a hectic day at school.
Still too mad about the heart-breaking interlude that morning with Daddy, I had turned away, ignoring the small box, and began stripping down. As I had thrown my clothes into the chute and slammed it shut, the sound brought up a flood of grief over that latest, in an ever-lengthening queue, of our ‘misunderstandings’ – as Daddy had preferred to call them.
Mama had been gone from us for almost six years at that time. I had just turned ten when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Herbie had been fifteen, and I remember like it was yesterday, Mama telling my older brother to help Daddy see that I was in church every Sunday, especially when Daddy couldn’t be there.
My parents had owned a small furniture store in our town and they often went on buying trips to neighboring states to select items to be shipped to the store.
Since Mama died, Daddy still made the trips. In fact, he was committed to leave the day of our big fight. His assistant was to meet him around noon, as well as my memory serves. How quickly I’d thought about having the house all to myself for an entire week, especially since
Herbie was ensconced at Illinois State – light years from Georgia. This fact was the crux of my argument with Daddy that fateful morning.
Daddy had laid the law down about Eric coming over while he was gone, and I had retaliated with all the stupid reasons why our studying together wasn’t harming anyone. I suppose the reason it finally ended with Daddy slapping me across the mouth was because I’d called him an “old Satan”.
He was as shocked as I had been at his loss of temper. I recall seeing his face crumble as he reached for me. Taking the advantage, I had turned and fled to my room and locked the door. Silently, I’d listened as his footsteps brought him to the door, and he rattled the knob.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, open the door and let me make this right. I’m pressed for time, and I’ve got to go back by the office before Jim and I have to leave,” he begged.
Remembering I had been the one in control, I stood steadfast, and gloated over my power to bring my father to such obvious grief. There was something heady about it all and I felt vindicated.
Soon, he spoke again, “I love you Paula. I’ll call as soon as we arrive.”
Oh, if only foresight had the strength of hindsight. You see, both my father and Jim were killed in an explosive crash on their return trip home just a week after our big fight.
After Daddy’s funeral, Herbie moved me out of the house and into the home of my Aunt Lydia and Uncle Clifford – mother’s younger sister and her husband.
It soon became evident to everyone that something was very wrong with me. I became deathly sick. We all thought it was a bad case of grief over the death of Daddy, and the fact that I was now an orphan.
Lydia took me in to see her family Doctor, who soon surmised that I needed a pelvic exam.
I was mortified when Dr. Young called Lydia in while I was still spread-eagle on the table, and informed her I was about six weeks pregnant.
I don’t have to tell you that all the warnings Daddy had spoken of came rushing back. While Daddy was away, Eric had come to the house every afternoon after school, and we ‘studied’ together.
I never saw Eric again after my Daddy’s funeral, even though he’d promised to try to come to see me in Robbins, which was nearly thirty miles away.
Lydia and Clifford saw that I didn’t miss a day of school, nor Sunday from church. They supported me in every way and with the sale of the furniture business, they paid off our house but kept it for us children.
Herbie married a settled in Illinois. I met Frank Miller in college and we married when my Mary was just five years old. Frank loved the house I grew up in and we spent nearly sixty years there, until his death last year.
Mary and her family own the place now and the house is filled with love and laughter. She has three children and one darling grandchild.
I had soon concluded that if I didn’t open the gift my father had placed on my bed that day so many years ago, it would somehow absolve my actions. If I didn’t accept his offer of love, then I could still hold onto my feelings of being the injured one.
Many years have passed and now I find myself facing my own mortality. I realize how right my father was and how selfish and immature I had been. He could foresee the danger of what actually did occur.
Raising my own daughter, I experienced the same fears with her rebellious years. I was blessed to have Frank with me to help me guide her through those times. Where as Daddy had lost Mama and was suffering under that absence while trying to deal with a young girl’s youthful passions, which neither of us understood.
But, all that’s now over and done. Here I find myself in theWoodlands Nursing Home at the age of 84. I was fine up until about three weeks ago, when I slipped and fell in the shower and broke my right hip. They hospitalized me and with inactivity I soon developed pneumonia. Even though my Doctors keep saying I’ll soon be right as rain, I know better.
My room here is lovely, the staff is gentle and caring, the food is passable, but the visits from my family and Pastor Thomas are the real bright spots in any day they can manage to get here.
Since today is Sunday, I know Mary, at least, will come. I called her early this morning and told her where the package was hidden so she could bring it to me. I’ve decided the time has come for me to open the gift from my father. I remember it well. I’ve remembered it every day since I first saw it on my bed. It’s covered with silver scrolled paper, tied with a silver-blue
ribbon. The white tag which was tied with silver cord fastened to the knot in the ribbon, simply said, “To my girl”.
“Hey, Mama. You’re awake. You’re looking so good. How’re you feelin’?” Mary spoke softly as she stroked my head and bent to kiss my cheek.
“I’m fine, honey. A little tired of this bed, but otherwise fine.” I replied.
“Here’s the box I found where you told me to look. Is this what you wanted?” she asked as she took it from her purse.
I reached with trembling hands and took it. Reading once more the last words my father ever wrote to me. I handed it back and said, “Open it for me and let’s see what it is.”
Mary slowly and deliberately undid the knot, slipped off the corded tag, and blue ribbon and laid them aside. She then unwrapped the fragile paper and slid out a blue velvet box. She laid it in my hands and we opened it together.
Inside was a beautiful yellow-gold heart-shaped locket, etched with pink gold roses, suspended on a delicate gold chain.
Mary clicked open the heart to reveal two tiny photo’s. Mama on the left and Daddy on the right.
With tears streaming down my face, I turned it over and read the inscription: “Forgive our failures”.
I looked up at Mary and asked her to fasten it on for me, which she did.
“Bury it with me honey,” I said.
“I will, Mama.”
Tonight, I am alone with the thoughts of my life. I know that my time is very near and I feel a peace beyond belief, as I stroke the locket with my withered and twisted fingers.
"Hey baby. We’ve been waiting for you."
Still too mad about the heart-breaking interlude that morning with Daddy, I had turned away, ignoring the small box, and began stripping down. As I had thrown my clothes into the chute and slammed it shut, the sound brought up a flood of grief over that latest, in an ever-lengthening queue, of our ‘misunderstandings’ – as Daddy had preferred to call them.
Mama had been gone from us for almost six years at that time. I had just turned ten when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Herbie had been fifteen, and I remember like it was yesterday, Mama telling my older brother to help Daddy see that I was in church every Sunday, especially when Daddy couldn’t be there.
My parents had owned a small furniture store in our town and they often went on buying trips to neighboring states to select items to be shipped to the store.
Since Mama died, Daddy still made the trips. In fact, he was committed to leave the day of our big fight. His assistant was to meet him around noon, as well as my memory serves. How quickly I’d thought about having the house all to myself for an entire week, especially since
Herbie was ensconced at Illinois State – light years from Georgia. This fact was the crux of my argument with Daddy that fateful morning.
Daddy had laid the law down about Eric coming over while he was gone, and I had retaliated with all the stupid reasons why our studying together wasn’t harming anyone. I suppose the reason it finally ended with Daddy slapping me across the mouth was because I’d called him an “old Satan”.
He was as shocked as I had been at his loss of temper. I recall seeing his face crumble as he reached for me. Taking the advantage, I had turned and fled to my room and locked the door. Silently, I’d listened as his footsteps brought him to the door, and he rattled the knob.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, open the door and let me make this right. I’m pressed for time, and I’ve got to go back by the office before Jim and I have to leave,” he begged.
Remembering I had been the one in control, I stood steadfast, and gloated over my power to bring my father to such obvious grief. There was something heady about it all and I felt vindicated.
Soon, he spoke again, “I love you Paula. I’ll call as soon as we arrive.”
Oh, if only foresight had the strength of hindsight. You see, both my father and Jim were killed in an explosive crash on their return trip home just a week after our big fight.
After Daddy’s funeral, Herbie moved me out of the house and into the home of my Aunt Lydia and Uncle Clifford – mother’s younger sister and her husband.
It soon became evident to everyone that something was very wrong with me. I became deathly sick. We all thought it was a bad case of grief over the death of Daddy, and the fact that I was now an orphan.
Lydia took me in to see her family Doctor, who soon surmised that I needed a pelvic exam.
I was mortified when Dr. Young called Lydia in while I was still spread-eagle on the table, and informed her I was about six weeks pregnant.
I don’t have to tell you that all the warnings Daddy had spoken of came rushing back. While Daddy was away, Eric had come to the house every afternoon after school, and we ‘studied’ together.
I never saw Eric again after my Daddy’s funeral, even though he’d promised to try to come to see me in Robbins, which was nearly thirty miles away.
Lydia and Clifford saw that I didn’t miss a day of school, nor Sunday from church. They supported me in every way and with the sale of the furniture business, they paid off our house but kept it for us children.
Herbie married a settled in Illinois. I met Frank Miller in college and we married when my Mary was just five years old. Frank loved the house I grew up in and we spent nearly sixty years there, until his death last year.
Mary and her family own the place now and the house is filled with love and laughter. She has three children and one darling grandchild.
I had soon concluded that if I didn’t open the gift my father had placed on my bed that day so many years ago, it would somehow absolve my actions. If I didn’t accept his offer of love, then I could still hold onto my feelings of being the injured one.
Many years have passed and now I find myself facing my own mortality. I realize how right my father was and how selfish and immature I had been. He could foresee the danger of what actually did occur.
Raising my own daughter, I experienced the same fears with her rebellious years. I was blessed to have Frank with me to help me guide her through those times. Where as Daddy had lost Mama and was suffering under that absence while trying to deal with a young girl’s youthful passions, which neither of us understood.
But, all that’s now over and done. Here I find myself in theWoodlands Nursing Home at the age of 84. I was fine up until about three weeks ago, when I slipped and fell in the shower and broke my right hip. They hospitalized me and with inactivity I soon developed pneumonia. Even though my Doctors keep saying I’ll soon be right as rain, I know better.
My room here is lovely, the staff is gentle and caring, the food is passable, but the visits from my family and Pastor Thomas are the real bright spots in any day they can manage to get here.
Since today is Sunday, I know Mary, at least, will come. I called her early this morning and told her where the package was hidden so she could bring it to me. I’ve decided the time has come for me to open the gift from my father. I remember it well. I’ve remembered it every day since I first saw it on my bed. It’s covered with silver scrolled paper, tied with a silver-blue
ribbon. The white tag which was tied with silver cord fastened to the knot in the ribbon, simply said, “To my girl”.
“Hey, Mama. You’re awake. You’re looking so good. How’re you feelin’?” Mary spoke softly as she stroked my head and bent to kiss my cheek.
“I’m fine, honey. A little tired of this bed, but otherwise fine.” I replied.
“Here’s the box I found where you told me to look. Is this what you wanted?” she asked as she took it from her purse.
I reached with trembling hands and took it. Reading once more the last words my father ever wrote to me. I handed it back and said, “Open it for me and let’s see what it is.”
Mary slowly and deliberately undid the knot, slipped off the corded tag, and blue ribbon and laid them aside. She then unwrapped the fragile paper and slid out a blue velvet box. She laid it in my hands and we opened it together.
Inside was a beautiful yellow-gold heart-shaped locket, etched with pink gold roses, suspended on a delicate gold chain.
Mary clicked open the heart to reveal two tiny photo’s. Mama on the left and Daddy on the right.
With tears streaming down my face, I turned it over and read the inscription: “Forgive our failures”.
I looked up at Mary and asked her to fasten it on for me, which she did.
“Bury it with me honey,” I said.
“I will, Mama.”
Tonight, I am alone with the thoughts of my life. I know that my time is very near and I feel a peace beyond belief, as I stroke the locket with my withered and twisted fingers.
"Hey baby. We’ve been waiting for you."
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