The little farm on which we lived was 20 acres, too small to support a family, but it seemed huge to me. Our nearest neighbors to the north, south and west were at least a quarter-mile away and to the east a mile distant as the crow flies, 3 miles driving. That was my grandmother’s house, our nearest relative.
My father had 6 brothers and sisters, 3 of each. These were the ones that were mentioned in conversation. There was a 7th, an uncle, who was institutionalized and whose name I never heard uttered until one day when I was much older and we learned he had died. This was the cause of some hand-wringing and no small amount of buck-passing as the living siblings parried over who would step up and “make arrangements”. To my knowledge there was no service, just a convenient but costly disposal, and the subject was never again discussed.
As far as I know now my father’s family had been dirt-poor for generations, and all they seemed to know was trying to work the land. None of them were any good at it – it is a hard life even when you own good land, and there were few prosperous families living anywhere in our county, so we were no different than most everyone else. My father’s sisters, wisely, packed up and moved away as soon as they were able, and only one of them remained anywhere close by. She married a farmer who was only slightly more successful – he worked hard and seemed to know what to do and when. They had one son, my cousin Steve. We saw them only occasionally.
The brothers scattered to the four winds with the nearest one, the alcoholic brother and his equally alcoholic wife, lived over an hour’s drive away. They would visit rarely, and always when they did it was a time of tension and urgency – how soon would they leave? No one wanted to see them or be around them; they were invariably drunk; they were invariably in an argument when they arrived, while they were there, and when they departed. The other two brothers moved out of state and I never met them, only heard their names.
My grandmother and grandfather lived the nearest to us. My grandfather was a scarecrow-like guy who mostly sat around in a chair chewing tobacco and spitting into a coffee can; only half the time he would miss, so my grandmother was always trying to clean up after him. He was a mean man and his idea of fun would be to grab you if you ventured too close to his chair, and pinch you and cackle like some tobacco-stained demon. He scared me to death and I always gave him a wide berth and tried never to be in the same room with him, ever.
My grandmother was a very sweet lady, always old looking, always tired looking, she hardly ever smiled. But, she seemed very grandmotherly and I liked being with her as long as granddad was not around. I have often wondered if grandma felt the same way – liked not having granddad around. As the years have passed I have grown to believe that grandma was tired to her bones, but also sad to her bones. She had worked hard as a struggling farm wife her entire life and had little to show for it. Her children flew the nest and rarely visited her. Her husband was a sadist. She was trapped. Even today my heart aches for her.
My father had 6 brothers and sisters, 3 of each. These were the ones that were mentioned in conversation. There was a 7th, an uncle, who was institutionalized and whose name I never heard uttered until one day when I was much older and we learned he had died. This was the cause of some hand-wringing and no small amount of buck-passing as the living siblings parried over who would step up and “make arrangements”. To my knowledge there was no service, just a convenient but costly disposal, and the subject was never again discussed.
As far as I know now my father’s family had been dirt-poor for generations, and all they seemed to know was trying to work the land. None of them were any good at it – it is a hard life even when you own good land, and there were few prosperous families living anywhere in our county, so we were no different than most everyone else. My father’s sisters, wisely, packed up and moved away as soon as they were able, and only one of them remained anywhere close by. She married a farmer who was only slightly more successful – he worked hard and seemed to know what to do and when. They had one son, my cousin Steve. We saw them only occasionally.
The brothers scattered to the four winds with the nearest one, the alcoholic brother and his equally alcoholic wife, lived over an hour’s drive away. They would visit rarely, and always when they did it was a time of tension and urgency – how soon would they leave? No one wanted to see them or be around them; they were invariably drunk; they were invariably in an argument when they arrived, while they were there, and when they departed. The other two brothers moved out of state and I never met them, only heard their names.
My grandmother and grandfather lived the nearest to us. My grandfather was a scarecrow-like guy who mostly sat around in a chair chewing tobacco and spitting into a coffee can; only half the time he would miss, so my grandmother was always trying to clean up after him. He was a mean man and his idea of fun would be to grab you if you ventured too close to his chair, and pinch you and cackle like some tobacco-stained demon. He scared me to death and I always gave him a wide berth and tried never to be in the same room with him, ever.
My grandmother was a very sweet lady, always old looking, always tired looking, she hardly ever smiled. But, she seemed very grandmotherly and I liked being with her as long as granddad was not around. I have often wondered if grandma felt the same way – liked not having granddad around. As the years have passed I have grown to believe that grandma was tired to her bones, but also sad to her bones. She had worked hard as a struggling farm wife her entire life and had little to show for it. Her children flew the nest and rarely visited her. Her husband was a sadist. She was trapped. Even today my heart aches for her.
