Why Grandpa Was a Sharecropper

This is a story passed along to me, filled with the frailties of our human condition. It seems important to tell such tales. If we only focus on a past through rose colored glasses, we miss the true human drama that our ancestors experienced that in many ways are exactly the sorts of things we encounter today.

First a note about my grandpa on my daddy's side. He was not a tall man, and mostly I remember him with his white hair, and the dark glass which covered one eye he had lost when he was young. I remember us sneaking into the bedroom when he was sleeping to stare at the empty socket where an eye once had been.

Grandpa had a fierce temper and would argue with a fence post. My mama was the same way, and they tell the story that everyone was walking on pins and needles over what would happen when the two first met. Well true to form, he snapped at her, and she snapped right back. What followed was a ferocious battle of pure stubbornness of epic proportions. Suddenly they both broke out laughing and were as close as any two people ever could be after that.

But this story is about a much younger grandpa, a man who did not get many breaks in life, spending much of his younger years as a share cropper trying to eke out an existence raising and picking cotton on shares with the landowner. How had he come to this place? The story began with his father, my great grandfather.

Grandpa Jimmy had been part of a large family as were most in those days. His daddy was fairly well to do, with real estate holdings in the Paris, Texas area. He loved my great grandma by all accounts, and all should have been well for him, but for a sometimes cruel fate. Great grandma took ill and died soon after. Grandpa was terribly lonely when a young woman in the area began to pay him some attention. The story I heard was that she was 16, which would be shocking now, but not so much back then. He was totally infatuated by her and soon they were married.

Now his new wife had her own family to worry about. Quietly and carefully she began transferring resources over to her family members. Then great grandpa died and a young grandpa Jimmy was on his own. Without education or resources, the only choice was sharecropping, and that is what he did. He later met grandma Ollie and they began raising their own large family not too long after.

One story of note I've always held onto. My grandma Ollie was generally a quiet woman. Most of my memories of her were of her insistence in her later years of not having anyone interrupt her when her soaps were on. Also of the great family gatherings where she and the women would be busy in the kitchen, the men sitting around the table swapping lies, and us kids crawling under the large dining table between legs, both chair and table legs, and the humans jabbering above us. It was our fortress or our getaway, depending on what the game called for. Then we all would gather around for a wonderful dinner, much of the produce raised in the garden and chickens slaughtered from the back yard.

Well there was a younger grandma too. On one occasion, they had been told to vacate the shack where they were living. Grandpa left to try to find work elsewhere. While he was gone, grandma heard a noise outside. A crew had arrived and informed her she had to get out that moment because they were going to tear the place down. She reminded them the boss had given them two weeks, but he was not interested in negotiating.

"Just a minute then," said grandma Ollie. She walked into the house. Out she came, a shotgun under her arm. "If you don't git out of here right now, I'm going to pepper you," she warned.

The crew leader's eyes got really big then. "We...we'll be back soon. With the sheriff!"

"Couple a days and I'll be gone anyhow. Just leave us be." As they told the story, her voice never raised, but was cool as a cucumber. Grandpa found another job and soon they were gone.

Later in life, grandpa Jimmy and my uncle Hilyard went into business together repairing shoes. We used to visit my grandparents about once a month or so. Then one day, grandpa went to the doctor because of severe headaches. It turned out to be brain cancer. They found it too late and he was going to die. I'll never forget those days. We visited him in the hospital, and then he was out for a time before going back to die. There was an old custom that I think really had value all its own. We all gathered, then he called us in, one at a time. This was not an ordinary visit. This was a ritual, one where he thought carefully what he wanted to pass on to each one of us.

My turn came. "Yes grandpa?"

"Come here and sit on the bed beside me." I walked over and sat down as he instructed. I was ten years old. "Won't be long, you'll be growing up and going to work."

I nodded.

"Your work is a piece of who you are. Take pride in the job, no matter what the job is. If you're working for a boss man, make him look good by the work you do. There's more rewards to work than just a paycheck." I thought he was done, but he motioned for me to hold on a moment. "You got some of the stubbornness of your mama. I like that." I grinned and so did he, then he motioned me to send the next one in.

When he died, we all took our turn sitting up with the body. It's an eerie feeling sitting in a mortuary late at night with a body all alone. But there I was, ten years old, doing my duty. The casket was open and most today would be worried what it would do to the child. But I'd seen my other grandpa and slept in the room adjacent where I could see his body stretched out on a kitchen table when I was five, so this was small stuff. I remember the drive to the cemetery, then all of us gathered around.

At that young age, death was still something uncommon. I'm much older now. Death is no longer such a stranger. So many since have died. Aunts, uncles, cousins friends, my parents, my soul mate. From each I've learned and grown however. I remembered grandpa's advice. It served me well in my working years. Seems it really was good advice.

Blessings in Disguise

March 13, 1965. My brother was working on his camping merit badge for boy scouts. My friend David and I agreed to camp with him on our farm twelve miles outside of Tyler near Overton. We drove our family car with the equipment, David following behind on his motorcycle. All I recall was that it was a Yamaha. Hidden away in the gear was a bottle of vodka the two of us had secreted away for the evening after my brother went to sleep. Dad drove the car back that Saturday afternoon and we set up camp. Soon enough my brother had fallen asleep and out came the bottle, and soon enough neither of us were feeling any pain.

The bike was stripped down for cross country riding, and that started to appeal to us. David looked over at me and said, "I need a battery for this headlight. With it we could do some cross country out here."

I replied, "Hmm, wonder where we could get one."

"They will be working late at the bike shop tonight. Tomorrow is a big race in Louisiana. Let's ride in and get a battery there."

I stumbled over to where my brother was sleeping, telling him we would be gone for a bit to get a battery and would he be okay? He mumbled something still asleep which of course we interpreted to mean yes. We pushed the bike out to the road, I climbed on the back and pushing the pedal the bike roared and we were off.

Let's be clear what was happening here. We were driving a motorcycle without a light along the Old Overton Road which winded about like a serpent until we got to the Kilgore Highway. Too many police were on that highway since it was the main thoroughfare for people going to buy alcohol from Tyler where selling booze was prohibited. So we cut over to the Old Kilgore Highway to ride the rest of the way into town, then cut back down back streets headed towards the bike shop located on Troup Rd. We were making this journey at a considerable speed. Driving down one back street, at what I would guess to be around 55 to 60 MPH, I looked around David, realizing to my horror that there was an intersection there with a car stopped at it. His eyes were watering and he hadn't seen it.

"Look out!" I screamed and he hit his brakes. We spun sideways and CRUNCH went the leg caught perfectly between bike frame and the car we had hit. Later a perfect imprint in the frame could be found where my leg had been. I was lying on the ground with my leg pulled up under me. Perhaps it was the shock, or maybe the considerable amount of alcohol in my system, but I really didn't feel much pain. I knew instinctively however that the leg was pretty badly broken.

A crowd began to gather. Some well meaning samaritan offered to help me straighten my leg. "Please don't," I said.

Leaning forward he says "Here if we just..." and he starts to reach for the leg. Now I was an instructor in Red Cross First Aid. Doubling my fist I promised to knock the crap out of him if he did not back off. A bit offended, he did so.

Meanwhile, there was David, feeling no pain, wandering around. The police arrived and he began to smart off with them. Bad mistake because he was immediately arrested for DWI. An ambulance arrived and I carefully instructed them on how to properly pick me up so as to do no damage. "We know all that. Just hold on and let us do our job, okay?" I shrugged as they moved me onto a stretcher.

"Take me to Mother Frances," I told them. "Can you guys call my dad too?" I gave them the number. Still buzzing, "Oh and can you turn on the sirens? That would be cool." They shook their heads, but turned on the sirens and rushed me to ER.

So here I am lying there waiting for the doctor to decide what to do for me. Our family doctor had arrived soon after I did. Lying there, I see my dad walk in. Oh, did I mention that the week before I had gotten three tickets. Two were for running stop signs, the other for speeding in a residential neighborhood. The officer had chased me a considerable distance before I saw him. A group of us were going off campus to lunch. At one point I had been going eighty, but the fastest he was able to clock me on this venture was 45. We raced across a shopping center parking lot, coming to a stop along the highway. One of my friends looks back and says, "There is a cop behind you."

Okay he is always saying that so I laughed and said, "Guess we are going to have to outrun him then." I never had looked back. Meanwhile he believes we are stopped for him. He is getting out of his car just as I peel out spraying him with gravel. Okay, so finally I saw him. Great timing huh?

He pulled in front of me, jumped out of his car with his hand on his holster, and ordered me to get out of the car. He was furious and screamed at me for a few minutes before settling down enough to get about writing the tickets.

No, I had not mentioned that had I? Nor did I mention it to my dad. I had been borrowing money from friends to pay the tickets and made my buddies swear not to rat me out. So there I was just a week later, lying in the hospital with a seriously messed up leg. Dad knows that we were drinking and that David was taken in for DWI. With no small amount of trepidation, I open my mouth. "Um Daddy? In my wallet. No way I can make court date now. I have three tickets that need to be paid in traffic court." His face is starting to turn red, and I can see his fists clenching. He was worried about me and furious with me all at the same time and if he had taken a swing I can't say I would've blamed him.

However he controlled his temper, quietly removing the tickets and putting the wallet in his own pocket. "Don't want anything to happen to it here," he said.

Then came some X-rays and a very concerned doctor standing by me. Dr. McDonald asked me, "how much did you have to drink tonight?"

"Between us we had a fifth of vodka," I told him.

"Frankly, I'm not sure how much use this leg is going to be for you after this. We're going to have to put a pin in there and use weights and try to keep one touch point and hope it fills in." He shows me the x-ray. "See that? It is a triangular piece of bone that fell out. It's going to dissolve. But we are going to put this point..." He showed me the part of the upper part of the femur above the knee. "... against this part of the femur next to your knee. The weights will keep the bone from slipping." He took a deep breath. "Trouble is, I can't put you under with all that alcohol in your system. It's going to hurt a lot."

I took a breath and nodded. They wheeled me into the operating room and then I felt them sticking a rather large pin in one side of the bone, then another to the other side. He was right. It was the most excruciating pain I had ever known up to that point. For two weeks it remained, with horrible spasms on occasion tearing out pieces of the muscles along my leg where the pin came out. Mostly though I was so heavily sedated with morphine and demerol that I just floated in and out. One night I heard a call for Dr. Red. Suddenly there were nurses running about. It was a five bed ward, and looking towards the window I could see flames. Seems the power system had caught on fire. They didn't have to move me though, and another shot of meds sent me back to the twilight.

After two weeks, a specialist was brought in. They put me under and replaced the pin in the knee itself. Progressively they were able to use less pain meds over time. I was moved to a semi private room on the fourth floor. A homebound teacher came to help me with my lessons since this was my senior year of high school and I did not want to repeat it.

This entire event, involving a three month stay in the hospital, followed by two months in a body cast, then another month in a wheel chair and then crutches for another six months, proved to be a profound blessing. It was my first experience with stillness. A parade of patients shared my room, and I could talk with them and often learn from them. I got to study human nature up close. Outside I watched the trees form their leaves. For someone with no patience, I had to develop some because there was no choice. I graduated from my high school in a hospital bed. The principal and school superintendent showed up along with a newspaper photographer to record the moment.

I attempted to have a relationship with a candy striper there. Yes, I was gay, but I sure was trying not to be, and looking back, I was pretty lonely and needy at that time. Years later we connected again, but on a basis it should have been in the first place, friendship. I love the way in my older life circles like that are completed, but that is another story. Though I drove the nuns there crazy, and to a degree perhaps the staff as well, it was to be the first of a number of life lessons that would propel me towards a sense of self knowledge that had alluded me before. I had more years of drinking to do, but the seeds had been planted. The leg turned out pretty well too, though it was bent out a bit, a condition that only a few years ago led to the need for a knee replacement.

One last thing. My friend had an aunt who lived right here in the Twin Cities area where I eventually would move many years later. Her aunt had written a poem which captured my heart. I cannot promise I can quote it exactly, but the gist of that poem has stayed with me over the years.

The Tumbleweed

Blown by the winds of destiny

Into the hands of fate.

God, lay your hands upon that tumbleweed

Bless it and give it it's liberty

Bless it at any rate.

For I too am a tumbleweed

Blown by the winds of destiny

Into the hands of fate.

Thank you to my friend's aunt, who gave me through her niece words to hold me up until I could find my own way.

Lakehouse Reunions

I sat in front of my computer trying to decide what I would write about today. Closing my eyes, memories came forth of family reunions on my mother's side. A smile crossed my face and I knew this would be the subject for today. While not exactly the same every time, here is generally how it would work. My dad would announce he had a two week vacation. We understood it would not be the full two weeks, because invariably into the second week he'd get a call to come back to work, and we would have to pack up and leave. But for little over a week, we would be together as family.

On more than one occasion, Mom would call her brother and ask if we could stay at his family cabin at the lakes. Let me explain. He along with his brothers had purchased a sizable portion of land outside of Newton, Texas near Jasper. The family lived mostly in Newton and Leesville, Louisiana about 50 miles away. The word would spread. Often my aunt Mary in Pine Bluff would then come down to take another room in the cabin with us. The weekend would be a family reunion.

Now this is no small family. Mom had several brothers. Claude was the one she contacted. But there was also W.L., Mickey, and Bill. She also had several sisters, including Nolia (pronounce Noh-Lee), Vi, Ethel, Mary, and Jean. Plus their spouses and kids everywhere.

Early in the week it would just be us. Dad would wake us up each morning around 4. We would lay out trout lines, then fish, then run trout lines, then fish some more until the sun was up good. Then we took all our fish back to the club house and clean them outside, and freeze them. On this property there were 6 lakes. One was specifically for skiing, all were good for fishing, and the clubhouse lake had a pier and swimming area as well. Another lake had a series of adjoining cabins not unlike a motel unit where all rooms connect. It also had a pier, but mostly for fishing. The lakes were well stocked. He also raised deer, buffalo, and elk on the land and the property was surrounded by a deer fence. It all was finished off with some pastures for Santa Gertrudis cattle and occasionally some Longhorns.

After cleaning the fish, we would have a huge breakfast, followed by a short nap. Then outside to the lake to swim to our hearts' content. No lifeguards here. This was another time. There was also the stories. Always the stories. We were cautioned not to cast towards the many water moccasins on the lake. "If they get mad at you, they will come right into the boat with you." Whenever we boated past one, I would shutter.

My aunt Nolia lived in a large two story ante-bellum style house near the lakes. We would go visit her and she would invariably serve a giant meal, all home grown. She herself could only eat things like oatmeal since she had no teeth. I can remember the oatmeal on her chin, which she would periodically wipe off. She and her husband Loyce would keep up the property and farm and tend to the animals. They had a wide porch that completely surrounded the house, where we kids would run and play to our heart's content.

One day my cousin Johnny, my little brother, and I walked out into the field where the cattle were. We were oblivious for a time when I looked up and saw the big old bull snorting and pawing. We turned and ran for the fence. We barely made it, tossing my brother literally over the wooden rails before that giant bull running right towards us pulled up and stopped. My uncle ran out and chewed us out good. Then he relaxed a bit. "Lemme tell you something. If you ever have a bull running you down and you can't get out, find a big tree. "

"Climb it?" I asked.

"Nope. see a bull can't turn real fast. To gore you he has to get to you. You can get on the other side of that tree before he does." Funny, all these years later I remember that story. We had our own cattle back in Tyler, but never a mean bull so I never got to use it. Though it does remind me of a funny story with our bull I'll tell another time.

So finally reunion day would be there. What we ate varied. Most often though it was either a fish fry or a crayfish boil. Family was everywhere. It was a hoot listening to my Momma and her family. First though you need some background. They grew up on a small farm in Arkansas. My Momma was the black sheep, getting herself preached into hell when she was 17. She went off on her own and cut her hair short and smoked cigarettes and got a job, back before any decent woman would do any of those things. The family religion was Assemblies of God. Aunt Ethel and her husband A.G. and kids all became evangelists, and Uncle W.L. was a preacher and evangelist as well. All were well versed in Bible. They would spin stories of their childhood, telling the rest of us what saints they were. Then Momma would speak up. "You can lie when you get home, but I know better. Only difference between me and you other hellions was I didn't hide it and pretend to be what I was not."

They would laugh, conceding she probably had a point."You got a point Rachel. You took licks for me more than once." Uncle W.L. would then roar, "but most of the time you had them coming too." Mom would laugh then. They all had loud booming voices and the laughter could be infectious.

The were all in the lumber business, so some talk would go to that. Then it would be time to eat, and someone would be asked to say a prayer and we got to listen to 15 to 20 minutes of prayer interspersed with halleluyahs and praise Jesus's and if we were lucky maybe even some speaking in tongues. Then someone would clear their throat (usually Momma) and there would be the invariable joke about how lunch was going to be supper if this prayer didn't end. Food would be served, then more stories. On occasion another game would be played.

In this game, entire conversations would be carried out, using nothing but quoting Bible passages. I didn't think you could even include a risque joke or bawdy humor this way, but darned if they didn't pull it off. I never took them too seriously because they were family and I knew their poo stank. There would also be lots of singing, something held over from their childhood when Grandma would pull out her guitar and they would sing on the porch back in Arkansas on Sundays to entertain themselves. Of course as soon as possible we kids were making our way to the lake to swim. Some of the older ones would do some skiing as well.

At night, Daddy and I would run some more lines. We always caught lots of fish, and there would be enough to pack up on ice to bring home for several more meals when invariably he got that call from his boss.

Funny thing is I don't fish anymore. I've gotten all soft in my older age and hate to kill them. But it was never about catching fish anyway. It was a time to get away from the city. There is no meditation that can compare sitting in a boat staring out onto the water, listening to the frogs and later the crickets, with no city noises, only the ducks flying overhead or the chirping of birds or occasionally the gobbles of wild turkeys on shore. It was a time when we could watch the passages of the sun, be a family together. We did not get to see our Daddy much growing up, and when he was home he was often tired. During these reunions though we saw another person, one we wanted to see more of. Momma was happier too, home with family, a family she once had to leave those many years before.

Today, who knows what became of the clubhouse and the lakes? I heard rumors some of the kids were fighting over them after our uncles began to die. Whatever happened, in my memory, it is exactly like it was back then, where the children can gather over the summer and family can be renewed. I can't be there of course, because I am today's outcast. But they will never take from me the memories of that time.

Child Fights Back: Bullying and Growing Up

He entered the classroom and headed towards his chair near the back of the room. Walking down the aisle, someone stuck his leg out to trip him and he stumbled forward. Regaining his balance, he sat down, red faced and wishing with his entire heart and soul that he could be anywhere but here. If only he did not have to go to school.

The teacher came in and began teaching which actually was a sort of relief. This morning while walking to school he saw caricatures of him drawn by classmates on street signs and telephone poles. He had not done anything to them. He knew of course that somehow he was different. At eight years old he was not exactly sure what it was, but it must be bad. This morning one kid came up and punched him in the groin, calling him a "homo." In unattended moments his conversation could be excited and he used his hands a lot. Was that what it was? He had focused on controlling his arms and learned to speak an East Texas dialect, just to fit in. Nothing seemed to work. He sighed, thinking life really was a lonely sort of thing.

It was time for recess. Running out to the playground, as he arrived on the asphalted area for playing a ball game called 2 square, one bully walked up and pushed him hard. "Queer!" he shouted. Years later he wondered if that kid even knew what it meant. Time would prove him correct of course, but he didn't know it then. Later in recess, one kid dropped down on his hands and knees behind our hapless soul, while the other shoved him and down he went, banging his head. He felt his anger beginning to rise, greater even than the ever constant fear he felt. Another school yard bully, three inches taller with long arms punched him in the belly.

As the bully started to walk away laughing, our hero felt something snap inside. He slammed his body into the bully knocking him off balance. He struggled to get up, but the child who had been bullied for so long kept punching and kicking, knocking the bully on his back. BAM a crashing fist landed right on the bully's nose and it started to bleed. He just kept punching, wild eyed, furious, with tears flowing screaming "You... Will... Not... Do...This... To... Me..." Each word accompanied with another punch before a giant hand grabbed him by the shoulder and a teacher pulled him off and sent them both to the office. That night he cried himself to sleep.

There were so many fights over the next two years. Everyone had to take their shot at the sissy boy who fought back. He was no stranger to black eyes and bloody noses. One day two kids told him they were going to catch him after he left school one day. Frightened, he took a route which led him blocks out of his way to get home. As fate would have it, his dad uncharacteristically was home that day. Usually he would have been on the road working. "Where were you? You were late."

The frightened young fourth grader then made his mistake. He hesitantly told his daddy the truth. "Two guys in the fifth grade said they were going to beat me up. I took another route home."

Daddy's eyes grew dark. "No child of mine runs from a fight. You stand up to them tomorrow. If you don't, you get a worse whipping from me when you get home."

The classes dragged along slowly the next day. Then the bell rang and out he walked. Just as promised, there they were. He took a swing at the first as he approached. It reflected off his arm. The other jumped and grabbed him, and both kids began beating on him. He tried to fight back but to no avail. Then it was over. Bruised and bloody, he walked the lonely route home. Daddy would be so proud.

Of course the child was me. One more product of bullying and an ethic that prized physical violence, especially against kids who were bullies. I was one of the lucky ones. I survived, which means I came out stronger after it was all over. I developed verbal skills to talk myself out of situations. It would be decades before i learned to love myself, but I did eventually learn. Learning to stand strong was perhaps one of the lessons of those early days at Bell Elementary. The principal seemed to understand, and there was a chair they said was just for me when I was fighting. Having said that, intervening in the bullying cycle was something that would not come till years later.

Today I have many friends and a somewhat normal life. I credit my life experiences for bringing me to where I am today. But my prayer is that young children never have to face that sort of bullying. Too many don't make it to be grownups. Controlled studies in Massachusetts shows that glb youth are 3 times more likely to have tried to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. I've not seen numbers for transgender, but my guess would be that is even higher. I'd rather have these young folks alive myself.

Tomorrow I will talk about something more upbeat. But this needed to be said.

My memories of Illinois

Okay, the photo is when I was 6 years old in Tyler, in this case pushing a stroller with my brother in it, but the memories are three years earlier in Olney, Illinois. See that was my earliest recollection about my "difference."

We lived in an apartment, a two story house in Olney, Illinois. Our landlady took a room upstairs, and shared our kitchen, but mostly the bottom floor was ours. I'm always a bit surprised at how much I actually do recall from those days. The landlady had her own toys that had belonged to her children. She often brought them down for me to play with. Occasionally I would wander up to her room, only to be met with by a scolding, first by her and then later by Momma. "My room is off limits child. Go downstairs to play!" She would tell momma and so came the second scolding. If she remembered to tell Daddy when he came home from work on the weekends, then a third one was in order as well.

Two vivid memories of this house were both about animals. One was the white squirrels, a genetic diversification causing the squirrels in Olney to be white rather than the usual grey or black. Not to be confused with albino squirrels either. There was a ladder built up the tree outside that the squirrels ran up and down. They were so tame and were protected by law. Those squirrels would eat out of my hand much to my delight. I'd try to pet them, but Momma warned me they might bite. Once I climbed up that tree only to be stranded there. Mom noticed I was missing and ran out and gulped down a scream lest I be frightened and fall. Daddy came home about that time, and his assistant climbed up the board ladder and rescued me. Momma was yelling and hugging me all at the same time.

The other memory was the rats. We had coal heating, the old fashioned kind where the coal was actually shoveled into a steamer in the basement. One winter it got dreadfully cold, and large sewer rats made their way into the house via the space around heating ducts. Well one night I walked into the kitchen and was reaching for some food on the table, suddenly I saw the rat sitting there eyeing me up and down as a possible meal. Goodness I screamed bloody murder. To this day, I am imprinted with the memory so vivid and am deathly afraid of rats. When the conscious mind can catch up, then I can deal with them, but don't let one surprise me.

Still another time, Momma had the screen door latched and was in the kitchen working away. She loved to sing quietly as she worked back then. Funny thing is, I'm the same way, though I am no way as quiet. So I survey the situation, and push a small chair over to the door, climb up on the chair, unlatch the door, then headed across the very busy street in front of our house to the gasoline station down the street. They saw me coming across their drive and ran out and snatched me up. One of the guys there always teased and played with me which is why I wanted to go visit in the first place. He sat their entertaining me while asking where my Momma was. Meanwhile the other picked up the phone and called Momma. Back then it was not uncommon for the service station folks to know their customers, and indeed in Tyler our service station owner was also best friends with my parents. "So where is your child Mrs. Wicks?"

"In the living room, why?"

"Here, say hello to your Mommy."

"Mommy?"

No response. Half a minute later, she was coming through the front door. She thanked them profusely, then scolded me promising if I ever pulled such a stunt again she'd wear my butt out good.

One other memory before I get to the main event. Momma had raked the yard and was burning the leaves at the curb. I was wandering around on the grass nearby and put the basket over my head. Yeah, I know, stupid move. I wandered towards the curb and stumbled and fell into the fire. So my shirt is on fire, and I'm running full force screaming. Behind me Momma is running trying to catch me. She throws me to the ground and puts out the fire with her coat. Well the hospital was right across the street and the burns were minor. But sheesh you don't forget being on fire.

But here is what I recalled when I began this blog entry today. I used to play next door with a girl named Mary Jane. We always had fun, whether making mud pies or doing tea with her dolls. On one particular day, I announce I am the Momma and she agrees to be the Daddy. So I slip into her best Sunday dress and we are sitting having tea. Here comes Momma up the stairs and she is talking to Mary Jane's mom. "Get ready, time to come home!" She rounds the turn and sees me all dressed up in Sunday's finest! Her face and demeanor change. "Get OUT of that dress and c'mon." I see a look in her eyes. It is one of fear, something Momma rarely ever displayed. Of course I was too young to know that then.

So a couple of days later, she is tucking me in. "That's my little boy."

"Momma. I'm a girl." There is that same look of fear which confused me completely.

"No you are not! You are a boy and that's that! I'll have no more of this foolishness!

That was the day all of us began trying to butch me up. They gave me Christmas presents of cowboy stuff, footballs, anything he-man. I played with it out of a certain obligation. Still the notion that I was a girl never ever went away, though I sure tried hard enough over many years. I butched up and talked deep even before my voice changed and really tried to be that manly man everyone wanted. In East Texas I adopted the accent, partly out of self defense because I was "different" and the kids were brutal. As puberty neared, I realized I was gay too. By then I really knew I was in deep doo, living where we did. So the act continued for many years longer. Best starring role in a gender she does not fit...

Telling all this, I simply must bring some fairness to my parents. I was 3 years old in 1950. That was before most Americans even had heard of gender identity issues. It simply was another time, and the possibility that their child might be one of those homosexual deviants must have been truly horrifying. This was before gay liberation. I truly believe today they were just looking out for me, no matter how frustrating it all was for me back then.

Before Skip died, he looked through my old photos, and was struck by the sadness in my childhood eyes. That was true of course, though not the whole truth. It's easy to portray the negative parts of our lives as if they all were that tragic. But I still had a childhood, played with my friends. I think the really oppressive sadness did not show up until around the third grade. Even then, I could resort to the world of imagination and find some joy. We humans really are very adaptive I think.

Still when I am in a retrospective mood, I wonder out loud, what would it have been if they understood transsexuality (and being gay) and I could have lived honestly and without fear in those days? How would it have been different? I suspect quite a bit so. But that is for another person to learn, in a different time.