This Reeely Happened: I Do Not Write Fiction. “Ever So Blithely (Is that a word?) Expanded. “Shoot at me, You Sumbitch. You Caint Hit Shit!”

“Between The Lines of Photo-Graphs I’ve Seen The Past–

It isn’t Pleasing”

“Don’t spoil it all; I can’t recall a time when you were stuck without an answer”

“It isn’t Pleasing”

–Janis I (Me? The Narcissist? Yeah, That Me. C’est Moi)

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

-Janis Ian

This post is for Teela



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



Don’t Spoil it all

I can’t recall when you were stuck without an answer

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”

“It was a Good Year then; We All Remember”


“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 he was doing that, I  grabbed my Grandmother by the arm and dragged her to the road. He reappeared with his deer rifle and shot at us once again. We dived into a bar ditch, an’ cowered.

He went back into the house, to re-load, I suppose…

Yet, He had missed. Thank Baby Hey Zeus.

But he did not miss the mark bvy much that I would have some difficulties lookin’ at him as ‘Dear Ol’ Gran-daddy” Anymore–Nevermore.

We eventually got back to the house, very early morning.. Grandma packed some Grandma shit. I went lookin’ ’bout the porch. Discovered many expended rifle shells… Granddaddy was a crack shot. He could’s kilt us if he was a wanna to, He apparently was not of a want-to. Apparently.

But… we forgave him.

We should not have.

(I know this now)



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.


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.’


Once we arrived Houston, Mine Uncle, Gran-Daddy-Side, Recounted a story of when he was a boy. Gran-Daddy unleashed his right hook up-side my uncle’s head…

He did not stop flying until a kitchen cabinet impeded his backward progress into The 

Dante’s Hell That was His Life–Growin up with My Grand Dad


I Loved the Man


I Miss Him

So Marvelous Much

26 thoughts on “This Reeely Happened: I Do Not Write Fiction. “Ever So Blithely (Is that a word?) Expanded. “Shoot at me, You Sumbitch. You Caint Hit Shit!”

  1. Well Shelly,
    I have spent the better part of the last hour on yer page… looking to the comments section
    Is it gone?
    Have you become so famous as to not need that?
    Inquiring minds…

    I suppose it ain’t important, but I wanted to send you something by way of a link.
    It will keep.
    (I love your writing, by the way)

  2. Pingback: OK: Now it Really is Thursday. | Texan Tales & Hieroglyphics

  3. First of all…
    Thank you so much
    For reading
    And for your flattering comments.
    And lastly,
    Just for hanging out here for a moment.
    Your time is valuable and I do appreciate it.

  4. A remarkable story, Lance – and one that truly begs a few more chapters and a film score. I hope you one day fill it in – and not just around the campfire.
    Glad you got out alive.

  5. It was funny! I was in my underwear. We went to the Neighbor’s house up the road..they were nice, but unimpressed. The old woman gave me some pants to wear. The old man sipped coffee and had no comment.

    Thanks for reading.

  6. The title is my favorite. I love that you dragged her to the road. And it’s kind of funny how ignorant people look when they’re flailing about trying to cause trouble.

  7. Reblogged this on Teela Hart and commented:
    This post was made by Lance Marcom over at He also shared with me how hard it would be for him to write this post as it is a skeleton of sorts in the family closet. I am proud to reblog this story because he bravely decided to break the silence. Thank you Lance.

  8. Now…I am really the Black Sheep.
    Gonna rewrite “Addams Family Values” to show just how much, how much fucked my youth was fucked.
    Thank you Teela.
    I have never told this story (out of shame for my family), but your blog has convinced me…these kinds of ‘dark secrets’ need the air of day.
    I admire your courage.

  9. Thank you Lance, you were a brave young soul. This story means so much to me and I am grateful for it. It’s a big deal for you and I know it.

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