December 9, 2024Grandaddy, a Mystery
Who shaved my grandfather’s face?
That gray scrub upon the cheek
I’d kiss before crashing out the storm door.
Did grandma help him dress? I never saw
him do anything but sit on the back porch
in his rocking chair. Never saw him in church.
I can only recall seeing him in three other places—
the waterhole, fishing from one of those flimsy,
fold-up aluminum chairs; the hospital;
and playing fiddle in the den at Christmas.
I lose count of the strokes or was it heart attacks?
Some families do not pass down stories
about each other. It’s something I’ve never
understood about my mom’s side. Dad neither.
He tells a story about fishing with grandaddy
on a homemade boat out at the reservoir.
He said passing ski boats were white capping
waves in their wake, rocking the flat-bottomed
boat like it would capsize. Dad said, I knew
I would have to save the old man from drowning
any minute, but they made it back, caught nothing.
Now the boat has old bags of charcoal
and fertilizer in it. One night, after Wednesday
prayer meeting, sitting on the porch, we heard
the stress sounds of chickens being massacred.
Grandaddy cursed and produced a shotgun
surprisingly soon—mom mothering him,
close behind, talking him down—the boom
that peppered the shed’s tin behind the carport.
He stumbled back to his chair, plopped down,
gasping for air, mom taking the gun, a possum
scurrying over roots and moss, and moon shadows.
from #85 – Musicians