CHAPTER 1
Part 1—Prologue
There is no coming to consciousness without pain.
—Carl Jung
Nolen Robert and I agreed that I would take Daddy to buy a suit andother things needed to get him ready for Mother's funeral as soon as hewas released from jail. Nolen Robert was completing funeral arrangements,including transferring Mother's body from Erin to Clarksville for a visitationthat evening. I drove Daddy from the jail to a department store in a mall offRiverside Drive where we bought him a new suit, shirt, tie, belt, socks, andshoes. As we shopped—rather quickly, I might add—I was struck by theimage of Daddy still dressed in that same plaid shirt and undershirt withthe bloodstains below the neck, the one I had first seen him wearing in thejail the previous day. Nolen Robert or someone had arranged for him tochange from the bloody pants he had on at the time of his arrest. I neverknew why all of the clothes Daddy had been wearing the day before hadnot been confiscated by the authorities or why he had not had a chance toshower and put on clean clothes.
Then came what was perhaps the most bizarre and painful experienceof my life. I drove Daddy home with his new clothes by mid-afternoon.Arriving at the house where Mother had been alive early in the morningthe day before brought a pain I had never felt in all my life. Daddy and Imade a tearful entry into the living room of the suddenly eerie house andproceeded back to their bedroom and hung his new clothes in the closet offthe hallway where Mother's clothes still hung as she had left them. Daddypicked out some clean clothes and I walked with him through the diningroom, then the kitchen where the tragedy had played out the day before,to the small bathroom that Daddy and Mother had built in a part of theold screened-in back porch a year or so after I had married. Neighbors hadcleaned up the kitchen, but walking through it had to be hell for Daddybecause it was hell for me, with memories of happier times and what I knewof the current tragedy pouring over me like a waterfall.
Without speaking much at all, through tears in our eyes and chokedvoices, I began to help Daddy remove his shirts and other clothing to takea shower. When he removed his plaid shirt, I could see that his white long-sleevedundershirt had been soaked in blood from his wrists almost to hiselbows. Inexplicably, I took his bloody undershirt, put it in the sink, andbegan washing Mother's blood out of his shirt. It didn't seem right to burnthe shirt, but it didn't seem right to be washing it with my own hands, either.At any rate, something inside compelled me to wash out the bloody shirtwhile Daddy got in the shower.
Within the hour I left Daddy there to rest and drove to Nolen Robert'shouse where the cars of several relatives and close friends were parked.He and Penny had worked out the final details for Mother's funeral to beheld the next day, but they had been unable to talk to their children Glen,Ruth, and Tim—ages twelve, nine, and seven, respectively—about whathad happened. Certainly they knew a terrible thing had happened fromoverhearing conversations in the house, but no one had sat with them toexplain it and give them a chance to ask questions, grieve, or otherwise talkabout it. Nolen Robert and Penny asked me if I could take the children fora drive and stop somewhere and talk to them about what had happened.They just didn't feel like they could do it. Of course, I agreed.
Nolen Robert asked Glen, Ruth, and Tim to go with me and we quietlygot in the car and drove away. Glen sat up front with me and Ruth and Timsat in the back seat. We headed east on Highway 13, not knowing exactlywhere we were going. This was no time for small talk—we all intuitivelyunderstood that. I drove past Penny's parents' house and their sawmilland pulled into the empty parking lot of Don's Skating Rink and Café lessthan a mile further east. I turned in the car seat so I could see all three ofthem and began to explain what happened with Mother and Daddy, theirGranny Russell and Granddaddy Russell, as accurately as I could withoutthe vivid details.
I stayed with Daddy that night, sleeping in the bed that Nolen Robertand I had shared growing up. The same bed where my wife and I awokearound dawn two or three years earlier to see Mother standing beside me,staring intently down at us in silence except for the odd smacking of herseverely-dried, cracked lips.
CHAPTER 2
Part 2—Growing Up Years, 1944-1963
We are all immigrants into a new time.
—Margaret Mead
I was a series of disappointments from the start, but nearly three decadespassed before I understood the depth of the disappointment my motherfelt from the time she learned she was pregnant with me. Making mattersworse, after she adjusted to the idea that I was on the way, she had her heartso set on me being a girl that she could hardly believe it when Dr. D. H.Atkins, who attended my birth in our farmhouse, broke the news to herthat I was a boy. The cruelty of the moment was exacerbated for my motherby my birth on April Fool's Day.
In fact, I like to imagine that in a very early sign of my fluky precociousnature, as soon as Dr. Atkins dried me off and held me up for Mother to see, Ilooked her square in the eye with a toothless smile and said, "April Fool!" Myvery appearance—an especially bewildering moment for my mother—wasmy first cruel prank. She knew I was a Problem Child right off the bat. Moretrouble was coming. I later saw myself in a remark by Mark Twain, "Mymother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."
"Huh! He's so little he never will amount to anything!" This was mysix-year-old brother Nolen Robert's assessment the moment he first laideyes on me that April Fool's Day evening. Daddy did not offer an opinionas far as I know.
Thus began my life in our rural farmhouse in Montgomery County,Tennessee. So much for making a good first impression. I had nowhere togo but up.
But in spite of all that, I am proud to be among the nearly one millionpeople in the United States who were born on April Fool's Day. Thisexplains a lot about my personality, as I often tell people when they appearperplexed by something I do or say. The quirky holiday of my birth has givenme a license in a way to rationalize my behavior and attitudes, a license tobe different and to take pride in it. Abundant evidence for this is woventhroughout this memoir.
But there is a larger, more important story here. It is as Margaret Meadobserved, "We are all immigrants into a new time."
Daddy and Mother, as Nolen Robert and I called our parents, werefarmers, having come from farming families about sixty miles as the crowflies northwest of Nashville. They each had an eighth grade education.Daddy had one day of high school education, but on that first day histeacher took the class out to collect bugs, and he concluded that he could dothat on his own so he never went back. Both of our parents were avid readersof the Clarksville Leaf-Chronicle, the oldest newspaper in Tennessee, andMother was an avid reader of the Bible. She did not drive, so every Sundayshe, Nolen Robert, and I got ready for church and Daddy took us in thepickup, dropped us off, and came back shortly before church was over andwaited for us in the parking lot.
I took where I grew up for granted into young adulthood, came to avoidit because of the painful memories it evoked, and was later drawn back toit to reach a clearer understanding of myself, my family, and other peoplewho had a profound effect on me. Place is of extraordinary importance inmy story, as I suppose it is in everyone's story. Over time my bittersweetmemories of home have become less bitter—and sweeter. Place is alwayswith me.
My place was Montgomery County in northwest Tennessee. It is still alargely rural county in a farming region noted for livestock and tobacco. Thecounty was named for pioneer John Montgomery whose Scottish familyimmigrated to Virginia in the 17th century. He served in the RevolutionaryWar and was founder of the county seat Clarksville, a historic city at thejunction of the Cumberland and Red Rivers, incorporated in 1785. TheScotland of Montgomery's origins will unexpectedly and significantly comeinto my story much later.
Several things from my early childhood that stand out are the soothingsound of rain on our tin roof, the dusty gravel road about forty feet fromour front door, our wide front porch, the catalpa tree in front with foot-longpods in late summer that we called Indian cigars—yes, I smoked afew but tobacco was much better—cardboard crates full of baby chickens,our wood-burning stove in the living room that was piped into our chimneyabout seven feet above the floor, our dining table of delicious foods thatbecame a desk for homework or a place to spread out the newspaper, catsmilling around the back of the house, hogs in the fenced-in lot behind twoof our chicken houses, and the smell of mud around the ponds in our cowpastures.
The only grandparents I knew were Daddy's and their farm was abouta mile south of ours. Pappy and Mammy, as we called them, had sevenchildren and Daddy was the baby of the family. Pappy was widely lovedand respected and served for many years as the superintendent of Sundayschool at Shiloh Cumberland Presbyterian Church, where we worshipped,a position that Nolen Robert would hold many years later. Their house wason the southern edge of a wide creek bottom with their front porch facinga limestone bluff. A cemetery sat at the top of the bluff with another large,beautiful hill to the east. Beneath their long back porch facing the creekwas the beginning of a small swampy area that lead to a shallow pond.Clumps of cattails grew there, and the muddy area between the houseand the pond was dotted with circular mounds of little mud balls made byburrowing crawdaddies, or crawfish. In dry weather I liked to walk amongthose crawdad holes, but I never wanted to eat those little critters. Noneof our family did.
Pappy was noted for frugality, efficiency, and neatness. He savedeverything of any potential value. When I was about eight years old, inPappy`s waning years, I explored his old tool shed that sat in a patch ofdried weeds by the one-lane dirt road that led to my grandparents' house.In it I found an abandoned, rusty forge. The shed was filled with sortedpiles of scrap metal, cut-up tree branches grouped by size from a few inchesin diameter down to the smallest tips of branches. Every pile was neat andordered by diameter from large to small. An approximately three-by-six-footshelf was covered with Maxwell House coffee cans, all punctured in thebottom to let blowing rain and snow drain out. Each can contained rustyand bent nails pulled from bygone buildings and fence posts, miscellaneousbolts and nuts, machine and wood screws, and little bundles of wire ofvarious gauges. It was easy to see that Pappy thought all of this stuff maycome in handy someday, and some of it no doubt did.
Mammy was not religious from all indications that I saw. She was a snuffdipper with definite opinions. When the NBC News program, The Huntley-BrinkleyReport, with Chet Huntley and David Brinkley came on and theylooked straight into the camera, she tugged on her long dress and pulled ittightly around her ankles. When I asked her why she did that, she said overthe snuff in her lower lip, "I'm not going to let them look up my dress!"
Mammy had a habit of sitting in front of their fireplace in the coolmonths. She sat directly in front of the fireplace, about ten feet from theroaring coal-fueled fire, in a high-backed wooden rocker and rocked gentlyand steadily. As she talked the tobacco juice from the snuff built up and shebegan to rock in longer arcs. When it came time to spit out the juice, sherocked at full arc and spit a fine stream directly in the center of the fire onthe forward rock. Sparks flew up and she then resumed her normal, slowerrocking. She did this so reliably and accurately that she must have had manyyears of practice at it.
Family gatherings at Mammy and Pappy's house were something tobehold when aunts, uncles, and cousins assembled for feasts and stories.Before I started to school, I liked to sit in Pappy's lap and brush his silver,thinning hair when he sat in his rocker on the front porch. He apparentlyenjoyed it as much as I did because I was allowed to do that quite often.He was always calm and thoughtful. I never saw him get mad or heard himraise his voice.
But after I grew up Daddy told me about "Old Dr. Brake," a countrydoctor with a full, white beard who made rounds with a horse and buggyearly in the twentieth century. Daddy always used the word "old" when hementioned Dr. Brake. He told Daddy something about Pappy that wasmeant figuratively, not literally—as I understood the meaning of the story.He said, apparently with a lot of admiration and respect, "Your father is afine and gentle man, but if you cross him he will kick your ass."
Mother's parents died before I was born. They produced three children,and Mother was the baby. She had a number of half brothers and sistersfrom her father's first marriage, so I had an abundance of cousins whotended to scatter more widely than my cousins from Daddy's side of thefamily, partly because there were so many more of them. Mother's fatherfarmed and worked for a number of years in a sawmill until he suffered acrippling injury on the job and was confined to a wheelchair for the restof his life. An older distant cousin recently told me this earned him thenickname "Cripple Bob," but it is unclear if anyone ever called him this tohis face.
Daddy often spoke of Mother's mother with admiration, and heobviously liked her. He talked about how smart she was, that she was alwaysthinking about something in a way I later interpreted as an intellectual bent.She was an avid reader with a penetrating gaze and a quick wit. Daddyrecounted a time at her house when a mouse scampered across the livingroom floor. He said to no one in particular, "I wonder where that mouse'shole is."
My grandmother reportedly said, without looking up from the bookshe was reading, "Under his tail!"
Mother had an intense, serious side to her personality, but she also hadgreat passion and a hearty laugh that caused her to move all over in wavesof rollicking fun. She had dark, reddish-brown hair and a pale, freckledskin. She was about five feet six inches tall and weighed maybe 120 pounds.She was an extremely hard worker, both in the house and on the farm,doing plenty of chores with Daddy, Nolen Robert, and me. She was thelead singer in our family, often breaking out into song when the four of uswere going somewhere in our pickup or working on group projects such asrendering lard around a huge cast iron pot over an open fire on a cold fallday. She preferred to sing gospel songs and hymns such as "I'll Fly Away,""Unclouded Day," and "The Old Rugged Cross."
Before I was old enough to go to school, we had a Guernsey milk cowthat Mother milked into a bucket every morning and night. First she gavethe cow enough feed to keep her eating while being milked. Mother sat ona three-legged stool, washed the cow's udder and teats, and milked strongstreams of milk into the bucket. I liked watching her milk, and when I wasabout five years old I asked Mother to let me milk the cow. She agreed, wentover the milking procedure with me, and situated me on the stool.
But it didn't go so well for me. The cow knew right away that my littlehands on her teats didn't feel like Mother's hands at all. I had only milkeda few drops when I did something the cow didn't like. She suddenly kickedme with her right rear leg and I fell backwards over the stool into a fresh pileof cow manure. After Mother made sure I wasn't hurt, she got a big laughout of my mishap, though I had trouble finding all this as funny as she did.While I was normally pretty persistent at learning how to do things, thatwas my last milking experience.
Mother processed the milk at the house. After letting the cream riseto the top, she skimmed it off for making butter. We drank the remainingmilk with meals and used it for cooking and making ice cream in a hand-crankedice cream freezer. She had a big ceramic churn about two feet talland ten inches in diameter. It had a wooden lid with a hole in the centerfor the dasher that was made from a sawed-off broom handle with woodcrosspieces that churned the milk.
Everyone who ever sat down at our dining table raved about Mother'scooking. She was a master at simple Southern dishes, and of course she oftenhad great ingredients that came fresh from our farm—young chickens, beefand pork from the steer and hogs we slaughtered each year, Irish potatoes,tomatoes, peas, green beans, squash, cucumbers, and corn. In late summershe canned many of these crops, along with peaches and pears, and storedthem in the old "fruit house" built from concrete blocks about forty feet eastof our kitchen next to our tobacco field. I liked going to get various thingsfrom the fruit house and the earthy smell of its dirt floor.
