Life’s Tapestry

If life’s a tapestry, my stitches were placed strong and tight, in parallel fashion, beside my cousin Artie’s. They weren’t fancy because that isn’t our people, but they were sewn with a lasting, quality thread. Whatever the final product may have been lacking in trend and style was squared up with durability and creative function. That tapestry multi-tasked. It could be used as rug, blanket, wall hanging, tarp, rain slicker, most anything, because that’s who we were, who we are, who we will always be.

It started with our Grandaddies, Clyde Evelyn Barber and Arthur Calton Barber being born brothers. This relation made Artie’s dad, Arthur, and my mom, Jean, first cousins. Artie’s daddy was named after my grandaddy, creating two Arthur Barbers – one uncle and one nephew, in our small community. Grandaddy went by Arthur, Calton, Calt, AC, and Mr. Barber. He was called Grandpa, Paw Paw, and Grandaddy by us grandkids. My grandaddy was not a man of many words so the fact that he had this many name references is a bit baffling, yet it wouldn’t have been his nature to expend energy on others to straighten things out. While we are a simple kind of folks, it's complicated. It’s who we were, are, and always will be.

By |2023-04-13T13:51:39-04:00March 21, 2023|family|6 Comments

Zesta

The Buick Le Sabre glided like an un-ruddered ship. Except for the metallic bondo on the rear quarter panel, it was the color of khaki work pants, signaling blue collar with a trail of exhaust and slouching muffler. The chassis was loose and squirrely. I liked the floating feeling, but it made my brother turn progressive shades of green until Daddy pulled to the side of the road. He blew cigarette smoke from the window as Jeff wretched up his supper beside the white line. The tires, discount retread, had already taken to balding.

After being a ghost for two years running, I convinced Mama to invest in a store-bought costume. At $3.99, I was destined to be a Bozo for at least two years, even if the pants went the way of high waters. Pope’s Dime Store was a Christmas kind of splurge. The clown’s face was fastened by two sloppy, slanted staples and a rubber band that cut into the back of my head and then stretched slack, useless. But it wasn’t handmade and for a seven-year-old country kid, that was of most significance.

While Mama attended to most extracurricular activities, it was Daddy that took us trick-or-treating. It must have been in their marriage vows, or some negotiated lower class pre-nup. I can hear the parental dialogue.

“You take them to Sunday School, and I’ll take them out to beg for candy on behalf of the undead.”

“Okay, sounds fair,” agreed my mother.

By |2023-04-12T14:39:15-04:00October 29, 2021|family|0 Comments

Pinky K-Love

The cab is more minivan than car, but because it’s the recognizable Dupont shade that signifies New York City, we hail it as though we know what we’re doing. The driver, pleasant and friendly, blares K-Love Christian Rock from his speakers. His left pinky nail, thick and shaped like a Swiss Army knife scoop, extends a good inch beyond his finger pad.

“You know what that’s for?” my daughter whispers, motioning to his nail utensil.

“Cutting cocaine.”

Ryann raises her eyebrows, impressed that I possess this knowledge. I feel victorious. It’s like that with the under generation, they always think they invented all things sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. I’ve never done coke, but I have the Netflix.

“What a beautiful name it is. What a beautiful name it is,” sings the cabbie. “The name of Jesus.”

I am intrigued by the contrast of a Jesus lover slicing and shoveling snow up his nose. It’s hard to know with whom you are dealing - and, with what they are dealing.

A call comes in on what appears to be a personal phone, maybe a flip or burner. The cabbie speaks in muted Spanish. The man on the other end leaves lulls in the conversation and I wonder if he has dozed off, then I determine that he’s taking a bath. The sloshes are unmistakable.

The note I drop in my journal says, Pinky K-Love, which I decide will be my name should I become a Christian rapper, of which the likelihood is never.

By |2023-04-12T14:39:46-04:00October 15, 2021|family|2 Comments

School’s Out … Almost

School should be out, but it's not. We are paying a 90 degree summer rate for stolen snow days. Teachers, bookbags, and sneakers, fresh and new in August are tired and frayed, ready for a respite.

I cried every single day of first grade, even the last day of school. I was moved from classroom to classroom, my teachers passing me along like a white elephant Christmas gift, where the wrapping looks cute but the contents are not as expected. My brothers alternated the duty of escorting me from school bus to class as silent tears poured down my cheeks. After I was delivered, they bolted for refuge in the junior high building. I. Hated. School.

It got better along the years. I finally realized school played to my nerdiness. That along with the abundant library where you could read as many books as you wanted was almost a fair trade for the caged confinement of desks and chalkboards.

By |2009-06-10T14:53:21-04:00June 10, 2009|family, life|3 Comments

The Feral Bunny

My eight year old daughter wants a bunny. Not a stuffed bunny or a chocolate bunny or a little plastic hopping bunny. She already has all of those. She wants a real, live bunny. Very, very badly does Ryann want this bunny. I hate to sound so skeptical about my daughter and her baby Peter Cottontail. I have just come to understand that with children much like with their taller, grown-up counterparts, life is sometimes more about the getting than the actual having.

Here is the thing about little girls, they may be made of sugar and spice and everything nice, and perhaps this next part was omitted from the poem because it is difficult to find words that rhyme with “relentless without mercy,” but it doesn’t make it any less true. My daughter wants, even needs, a bunny.

By |2009-05-29T16:42:36-04:00May 29, 2009|family|1 Comment
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