“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.”
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.”
“Go on in there and do yer homework.”
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