I was adopted as a baby and it was clear to all of us that I was the wrong child for my adoptive mother. Nevertheless, her silent father – my grandpa - loved me. When I was ten or eleven he would take me with him on trips to the country to visit his kinfolk. Immediately upon arriving I would sink into the family, seemingly without having caused a wrinkle in daily existence. This adjustment astonished me. It also pleased me since I knew that, back home in the suburbs, I was a nuisance to everyone. I was in the way and strange and nobody liked me, particularly my mother. But there, there in the rolling countryside everything seemed so simple and yet so full. Life was a flow, not a thing to be contained and dictated. Each moment was filled with the promise of the nature's shifting cycles. There in that ripe, moist place the only unchanging reality was the solid and unquestioning love for all young things.
Freed from my sense of displacement, I would run through the stiff green corn stalks with my second cousins who had become my instant best friends. They liked me I think, or at least they had no choice in the matter. We were a vast network of cousins - or something close to it - and we were stuck together for better or worse. We never referred to one another by first name only; a statement of our affiliation was expected. There was "Cousin Gordon" and "Aunt Patty Earl", and all the spinster aunties were respectfully referred to with a "Miss" at the forefront. In retrospect, I find it astounding how well each of us understood the intricate weavings of our familial connections.
The great aunts and grannies would feed our clan of dirty, barefooted children at round kitchen tables heaped with plates and plates of salty ham and freshly made biscuits. We would then be herded out the kitchen door and into pick up trucks or the backseats of giant sedans. My feet dangling over the edge of the seat, I would stare reverently at the spikey hair of whatever uncle or male cousin was driving. Together, we drifted down country roads and gazed out open windows at the vibrant green tobacco and soybean farms, hot summer air blowing in our faces and stealing our breath. It felt like being battered with soft warm pillows. Like being buffeted about by the soft breasts of our aunties. Later, back at the house, I would burn my mouth on piping hot, fresh hushpuppies and soothe the burn with freshly squeezed lemonade. And then I would do it again.
The wholesome smell of decaying vegetation and well-smoked pipes, the weight of hot, wet air, the discordant yet oh-so-musical sound of a southern drawl and the barking laughter of old people… for me this became the atmosphere of belonging, of acceptance, of freedom. I never failed to be surprised that the aunties loved me just as well as the other children and that they often asked me to "give them some sugar". Shyly, I would wrap my arms around the plump women in cotton aprons and squeeze, breathing in the magical scent of bath beads and lemon cake. I secretly worshiped the uncles too, those mysterious wonders with gruff voices and scratchy beards who smelled of pipe "tabacca" and wore overly large pants with haphazardly applied suspenders. I watched them from a distance, longing for them to hold me, know me for a good child, love me just as I was. In retrospect, I believe that they never questioned my goodness or their love for me, though they were very quiet people who were not inclined to gush.
These folk – these misty and beautiful memories - they sat in rusty lawn chairs, gliding backwards and forwards with a steady creak, watching with soulful satisfaction as the "youngins" chased fireflies in the twilight. I joined in the celebration, jumping about with a jar in one hand and a lid in the other. I would catch them, but in doing so I never failed to be overcome with melancholy. Dancing in the night air, they were mystical creatures and I was in awe of them. They flitted around with such promise, such purpose, such brightness. But in the jar they were just loathsome little bugs that made my skin crawl.
My next action was predictable and inevitable; I would unscrew the cap of the glass mayonnaise jar and watch, breath held, as my captive discovered the exit, flew up and then away. Transfixed, I would concentrate on the little black spot, barely visible in the fading light, and pray that I had not broken the poor thing. And then I would see it. That perfect, wavering glow on the other side of the vast lawn. Exhaling with a relief no child should ever know, I would turn away from the dread and the solitude of being me. I would plunge back into the merry-making having forgotten, as only a child can, that I had ever been afraid.
Posts
