I guess that would be me

The first time I was accused of lying involved a school assignment concerning family trees. I was seven years old, yet it feels as if it occurred just yesterday. When I completed the assignment, my tree looked exceptionally lopsided as I knew very little of the paternal side of my family (with only Mama Booth and Grandpa listed), but my maternal side showed many roots, numerous grandmothers, and three grandfathers.

My second-grade teacher patiently explained the concept of a child, two parents, four grandparents, and possibly one or two surviving great-grandparents. When I attempted to explain that I had Grannymama, Big Mama, Granny Steele, Mama Booth, Granny Hanks, and Granny Hall, the teacher looked at me, sighed, and simply stated, "That's impossible." Then she walked to the front of the classroom and announced that "Shirley apparently has an overactive imagination."

I started crying, elephant tears tracking down my cheeks, and I didn't speak aloud to anyone at school for two years. Looking back at the episode now, I'm amazed how something so silly can be so exceptionally traumatic to my seven-year-old psyche and would quite literally guide my footsteps for the rest of my life.

My earliest memories are of living with my maternal grandparents. The household was made up of Granddaddy and Grannymama; Uncle Johnny; the twins, and their sister Rita (my mother) and me. Mama was rarely at home — she worked shift work at the local nylon plant where she met my stepfather, David E. Hall. When Mama wasn't at work she was sleeping; but, even then, Grannymama never told me I had to stay quiet.

I sat in front of the big floor fan watching the spinning blades, singing "Ahhhhh" to the sound of the blades humming. Johnny would scoot up close to me and we would spend hours watching the blades spin and listening to the differences in sound and tone between Johnny's voice and mine.

Sometimes I danced in dust bunnies that flurried in the sunshine while Grannymama swept the dusty floor of the Gonzalez Community House or beat the throw rugs hanging on the clothesline while Johnny asked if we could drive the logging truck when Granddaddy got home from work.

Our house was built originally as a meeting place for community activities in Gonzalez, Florida. There weren't any walls, just one huge room with beds partitioned off with hanging quilts and a kitchen sink stationed in the far-right corner of the oversized room with flour-sack curtains hiding the few pots and pans stored under the sink cabinet. Granddaddy somehow managed to rent the house, and Mama moved back in with her parents while she was pregnant with me and my father was away in the Navy.

Grannymama was the official babysitter since she was watching over me as well as her own child, Johnny. The twins were twelve when I was born, and Johnny was ten, but because he had cerebral palsy, his tiny frame looked more like that of a six-year-old. Johnny's crutches assisted his walking, but he could maneuver those crutches and swing his body in just such a way that he always outran me.

Uncle Johnny was named after Big Daddy, John B. Godwin. Johnny was more like an older brother than an uncle and he loved to tell me secrets. We often climbed into Granddaddy's log truck, Johnny driving and me set up as look-out, and, in our imaginations, we travelled all over both Escambia Counties, Florida and Alabama.

As Johnny pretended to clutch and shift gears he'd ask, "Have we come up on the crossroads yet?"

I would lean forward, peer out the window, and reply, "Nope, we ain't at the crossroads, we're just now coming up on Palafox, we ain't made it to the diner yet."

We would travel on, Johnny pretend gear-shifting and me giving directions, past St. Regis Paper Mill, where we would hold our noses from the pretend stink of the pulp-mill. Then we continued up Highway 29, with mile after mile of never-ending pine forests. Finally, we pretended to drive all the way into Century and over the viaduct into Flomaton, leaving northwest Florida and entering southern Alabama, both states sharing the same county name of Escambia.

One afternoon as we pretend drove north, Johnny teased me about my last name. He explained how we were related, and how everyone in the house had the last name of Moye except Mama and me. Johnny told me about my Daddy and how much he loved my Daddy but that we had to keep it secret because my Daddy was on a secret mission for the United States Government. He was working undercover to prove a conspiracy and clear the Booth name with the Lincoln assassination. Johnny whispered that we had to keep it a big secret, and he stressed the word, "BIG."

"Your Daddy is going to be famous," Johnny whispered. "Him and Rita took me to the drive-in, and Ples bought me a foot-long hotdog, but it kind of tasted a little funny and I think it's because the bad people were watching us, even then."

"When was that, Johnny?" I asked with amazement.

"It was when Ples came home from the Navy. It was the Navy that gave him undercover duties and that's why he can't tell us where he is." Johnny replied, nodding seriously.

We journeyed on, in our minds, turning right onto Highway 31, then left onto Upper Creek Road passing our Aunt Johnnie Mae's house across the road from their pallet plant. We often giggled about the company being named "White's Pallets" after Uncle Pete's last name, while Uncle Pete's house was also always painted white. "White for the Whites," Johnny would chuckle. Eventually we passed Traveler's Rest Cemetery, then Johnny pretended to down-shift, and we slowed down as the road turned to clay, inched our way through the graveled creek-bed, and swiftly sped back up to climb the steep hill into Moyeville, Alabama. Johnny would show me Uncle Hunter's house and Aunt Thelma and Uncle Tem's place, and then he would point over to where my mother and father lived as sharecroppers until my daddy joined the Navy. We passed the turn to Moyeville Baptist Church, with the churchyard all clean and pristine next to the sagging, rotten, and overgrown house on the corner. It was such a sad house. The house always sat empty for as long as I could remember. Kudzu and wisteria vines intertwined the roof to the point that the roof beams were splitting, allowing sunshine to cast shadows among the dust and cobwebs, creating surreal, dancing images of movement.

Johnny pretended to slow again to round the zigzag curves cutting through Grandpa Booth's place before travelling on to Stanley Crossroads, turning right and finally driving toward Pineview, where we would pretend visit with Big Daddy and Big Mama. Johnny and I pretend visited with Grandpa Godwin who was in his bed in Big Daddy's front bedroom, and during our travels, we would take a break and visit with all the Godwin's. Sometimes, Johnny would pretend that Suzie and Sharon were with us on our trips, and we would pretend talk, all together, Johnny pretend acting himself as well as Suzie, me playing myself and Sharon. "Cousins all together, the way it's supposed to be," Johnny would pronounce gleefully. On the way home, (if Grannymama hadn't yelled at us to get out of Granddaddy's truck yet), we would pretend stop by the cemeteries. We drove up Wildfork Road first, then stopped by the Pineview Cemetery, and on our pretend trip back to Cantonment, we stopped and visited Traveler's Rest. Johnny would tell me which headstones we should pretend to decorate with flowers. We described the fragrant wisteria, roses, or whichever flower was in season, and we made certain that everybody in heaven knew we stopped by to see them by waving to the sky.

Another one of our favorite pastimes — real, not pretend — was playing chase near the train-tracks half a block from the Community House. I would take off, running as fast as possible. Johnny would count to three, then take off, swing his body in several great strides, and out-run me in a heartbeat. Then we would fall into the grass, giggling, as I grabbed his crutches, trying to learn how to be as fast as Johnny. He would laugh at the sight of me, trying to hold onto extra-long handles while putting the crutches under my much — too — short armpits, and we would giggle even more as I attempted to walk, only to trip and tumble into the grass alongside Johnny. We were happy.

* * *

Then, one day, our little world of make-believe came crashing down around us, quite literally. It was dark, and I remember Mama shouting and Granddaddy cursing while a strange man was arguing with him. The man was drinking, but Granddaddy was too, so I think that was part of the disagreement. Granddaddy was saying that the man could take Rita but he couldn't take me and the man was saying that the child belonged with her mother. I remember the sound of the coffee table crashing against the wall, tiny pieces scattering throughout the room as it crumbled like dry cornbread.

Johnny and I huddled together on the double bed we shared across the room from the living room couch and the coffee table. Since we were just little children, we didn't need a quilt wall hanging around our bed, besides, being part of the living room and kitchen area allowed Grannymama to keep an eye on us even while we were napping.

That night, Grannymama was crying as she gathered up the pieces of wood that were once our coffee table and carried the wood out the back door to the burn barrel. Out front, we could still hear yelling and screaming, then the sounds of a car getting stuck in mud. There were tires spinning and Granddaddy cursing, then, at some point, Johnny and I went to sleep.

The next morning it was obvious in the markings on the yard how badly the car had gotten stuck. The mangled pieces of my tricycle lay buried in the mud where Daddy, as I came to know David Hall, had used the tricycle as traction to get out of the mud.

Granddaddy was the epitome of the Frank Sinatra "I Did It My Way" type of guy. Some folks loved him, some folks hated him; my mother viewed him as a saint and other people saw him as only a sinner. He never cared what people thought. He could charm anyone, and he charmed freely and contentedly. Ironically, I now think Daddy and Granddaddy were quite alike, but at that time, I loved my Granddaddy; David Hall was the man who crushed my tricycle.

The Hex

It was the summer I turned five when Mama Booth put the hex on me. Try as I might, I cannot remember the exact day or time that it occurred. Perhaps my total lapse of memory was part of the hex itself. I do remember the events leading up to it, or at least I think I do, but I just can't be sure. It had to be the summer of 1958. On my birthday, the holly moon, the buck moon, and the blue moon had all joined together to spread an aura of secret mist dewing those special dog days.

The night I saw the buck scraping his antlers, entangled in the huge crepe myrtle, I remember watching him, entranced. Mama Booth came up behind me, but I never heard her until she quietly whispered, "It's a sign, ya know."

I glanced in her direction, not wanting to take my eyes off the deer, when she continued.

"1958; this is a very special year, ya know."

"Why?" I questioned, never taking my eyes from the deer.

I sensed Mama Booth smiling as she put her arms around me and whispered words about the buck moon and how rare Blue Moons are and how special it was that it all came together in the month of my birth. I remember something about me being "special, a winding root to the Celtic circle of life and love."

"And it's a sign especially for you 'cause it's the wrong time of the year for most bucks to be scraping velvet, so this one's come here just for you as a sign."

"A sign for what?" I whispered.

"Child, that's for you to find out. Signs are only for the one that sees 'em first. But time will tell."

"Time will tell what?"

"Shhhh. Watch this," Mama Booth whispered quietly.

The buck was joined by a tiny doe. Their noses touched as the buck disentangled his antlers from the crepe myrtle tree. They scampered off toward the tree line. I think I remember rose petals, and chanting, but I'm not sure what was real and what I dreamed.

When I awakened, I felt disoriented and damp. I could feel the early morning mist as if we had been awake all night. But when I looked around, I realized I was in Mama Booth's bedroom, the curtains were drawn back, and the sunshine was barreling into the room, quickly warming everything. Somehow, I'd slept through breakfast, and our entire morning routine, and, when I finally sat up; it was to a totally quiet house.

* * *

Normally, every day of summer always started the same. I would awaken to the smell of bacon frying and would quietly listen for Grandpa to finish in the bathroom. After I heard the faucet stop running and the door open, I would slide out of bed, slip on socks, and conduct my own bathroom duties.

I would then go back into the bedroom, make the bed, dust the dresser, and put away my gown. As I tip-toed into the kitchen, Grandpa would nod in my general direction, and say, "Mornin." Then he returned to the radio, never waiting for an answer. But I would always smile and reply, "Good morning, sir."

As Mama Booth set platters of bacon, fried eggs, and grits on the table, Grandpa adjusted the volume of the radio next to his chair. The farm report gave the futures on corn, cotton, and soybeans, while Grandpa would quietly pour his coffee from the cup into his saucer and loudly slurp. Mama Booth would shout. "Gordon! Gordon! Which field you working today? Where you gonna be? You need any help?"

Grandpa never answered. He poured more hot coffee into his saucer, slurping again, and then re-adjusted the knobs on the radio.

Mama Booth never sat with us for breakfast. She brought plates to Grandpa and me then scurried back to the tiny stove to start supper. She was always cooking supper first thing in the morning. Eventually, Grandpa would stand, put on his straw hat, nod to me, gather two biscuits with ham or bacon, and walk to the back door. He would then announce to no one that he was on his way to this field or that field and he would see us later.

Once supper was finished, Mama Booth would make certain the lids tightly covered the pots, then she'd turn off the burners and slip two biscuits into her apron pocket. "Ready?"

She asked the same question every morning at the same time and never waited for an answer. I slid off the bench, grabbed my own extra biscuit, and waited while she covered the items on the table with a second tablecloth before we walked outside.

The day of the week always governed our duties. Every day before I woke up Mama Booth would gather the eggs, feed the chickens, milk the cow, and start breakfast.

After Grandpa left for the fields, we'd go outside with the day's schedule listed in Mama Booth's mind. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we beat butter in the brown clay churn, carefully reserving the fresh buttermilk for Grandpa's dinner beverage.

On Tuesdays, the three of us piled into the International Pickup to travel to Atmore for sale day at the local farm auction. Every Monday night Grandpa and Mama Booth placed wooden stakes in the bed slots of the pickup truck, to hold in a cow, calf, or several hogs. We would drive to Atmore right after breakfast and spend the day walking through stores and enjoying Vienna sausage with crackers at the Piggly Wiggly while waiting on Grandpa, who spent hours inside the sale-barn, situated just across the railroad tracks from the grocery store.

While shopping Mama Booth purchased True Confessions or Modern Screen to catch up on her celebrities; she particularly loved Lucille Ball, to the extent that even her Cocker Spaniel was named Lucy. When Grandpa finished at the auction barn, he would walk across the train-tracks, and climb into the beat-up green International pickup with Mama Booth and me.

We would head home, Grandpa Booth never saying a word, while Mama Booth chatted about how dry everything was and how badly we needed rain, or something of importance she read in one of her many magazines, such as Howard Hughes and his flying goose. She also pointed out important places, like where the best fishing holes were or what the names of the flowering vines were called. There were so many feed sacks stacked on the floor of the pickup, I always felt as if my knees were touching my chin.

Wednesday was always wash day, when we carried all the clothes outside and shook out the excess dirt while the water hose filled the tub of the wringer washing machine propped on concrete blocks in the side yard near the water pump. Mama Booth had a trellis set up to partially hide the washing machine from the dirt road. Assorted flowers and vines were planted on the front side, and the vines flourished from the water when I would get to pull the plug to empty the tank before we would rinse the clothes and cycle them through the wringer. For the really dirty clothes, we would fill a washtub with water from the hose and set the tub over a fire in the yard until the water started steaming with heat. Mama Booth would dip out the steaming water with a bucket, plug in the agitator to the electric pole, and then she would let me stand on a stool to watch the agitator jiggle back and forth to release the dirt from the laundry.