This Post Requires Mo’ Luv: It is All About Alchohol-hisem’es “Shoot at me, You Sumbitch. You Caint Hit Shit!”

My childhood was kinda messed up.

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“Between the lines of photographs I’ve seen the past. It isn’t pleasing.”

-Janis Ian

This post is for Teela

Teela

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My grandfather beat his wife. He was a jealous man. He was a boxer in his youth, and his beatings were top-notch.

He could beat:

This man. That man. Any man. (He could beat women too)

And he did; he beat my grandmother.

For fifty years.

He was a jealous man.

He hated me, but more important, he hated the spring I had sprung from.

He hated those “Marcoms.”

“Who the hell do they think they are, Boy? Doctors, lawyers? Scum! That’s what they are!”

“Yes, gran-dad, they are scum.”

“That old Doc Marcom… he is communisss.”

“Yes, Grand-dad, surely”

“If’n you sass me Boy, I gonna send you there to live among ‘em.”

“Yes, Granddaddy.”

“Go on in there and do yer homework.”

“Yes, Granddaddy.”

That conversation happened in 1969, if memory serves.

In 1974, when I had ‘matured’ and I was spending a summer there (in Winnsboro), late one night, my Grandmother came flying through my room:

“Lance! Lance! He’s trying to kill me! Help me!”

I jumped out of bed, followed them onto the porch, and confronted my so old nemesis:

“Hey! You son of a bitch! Don’t be hittin’ my grandmother!,” I shouted.

He took a swing and a miss.

I countered and decked him. Knocked him off the porch actually.

He gathered his wits and said,

“Boy! I am gonna shoot your ass!” And  I believed him.

He ran into the house, as I was grabbing my Grandmother by the arm and dragging her to the road. He reappeared with his deer rifle and shot at us. We dived into the bar ditch, an’ cowered.

He missed.

But he did not miss the mark that I would have some difficulties lookin’ at him as ‘Gran-dad” anymore.

But… we forgave him.

We should not have.

(I know this now)

****

OK

Just to try to tie this one up since some have wanted to know the ‘ending’.

Somewhere about sunrise Gran-Ma an’ me made our way back home.

Granddaddy was up (kinda). I warily looked at him.

He had sobered up by this point.

I said something profound like “Good Day Sir”—I used to be a smart-ass kid—guess I still am.

Anyway,

Grand-Ma packed some clothing into a suitcase.

I grabbed all my books.

We loaded ourselves and all our stuff into the car and headed south.

To Houston where my mom lived (she was more crazy than her father, but if you have ‘read’ me, you already know this)

But at least she was usually ‘un-armed.’

***

“You who are so good with words….”

Diamonds & RUST

Vid Cred: Dave Bing

(And, once again Dave! I don’t need the fuckin’ words! I have Functional EARS!)

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