The Cement Jungle

The farmhouse was surrounded by 180 lush acres with two gardens, pecan trees and a stocked catfish pond.  It held chickens, pigs, one pony, and 80 head of cattle that were tended by three collie dogs. My entire family gathered there once a year.  In preparation for the long drive from Michigan to Arkansas my mother, a desperate single parent, would dose me and my little sister with enough cough syrup to make us sleep though the drive and load us into the car.

I would wake up hearing the good sound- the sound of gravel crunching under the tires.  This was the sound of safety. The sound of abundance. The car moved at an excoriating slow pace up the two-mile-long driveway. The collie dogs flanked the car and barked another- good sound.  Jed, Lass, and Lady doing their jobs; safeguarding the farm.  

I see my grandpa bent over and working in the garden. I see the smile on his face as he looks up and I know he is happy to see me. I have anticipated this for months.  Before the car comes to a complete stop, I swing the door open. There was no such thing as child locks 45 years ago. Ignoring my mother’s warning, I jump out of the car and run to the person who considered me the apple of his eye.  I am his favorite grandchild: I know this and so does everyone else. 

The farmhouse is small and ordinary. The best feature was a huge front porch with a swing and rocking chairs. My grandma liked to sit on the front porch during thunderstorms and “enjoy” the lightning and thunder.  My grandma is on the front porch waiting for us; no doubt she has been busy preparing for the visit.  

I get to sleep in the formal living room on the shag green carpet.  This is grannie’s special room where she watches her “stories” on TV. The Christmas tree is up, it’s July and us kids find this funny.   When we ask her why she says, “because every day is Christmas.”  She had also colored eggs and planned an easter egg hunt for the next day. I was the one who found the golden turkey egg she made and was considered the winner.  It had a five-dollar bill attached to it with a rubber band.  The eccentricness of grandma didn’t stop there she had trick-or-treating planned.  She gave us pillowcases and had us run circle around the house stopping at every door to holler “trick-or-treat”.  She would answer the door with handfuls of candy. After several trips around the house, we were worn out with pillowcases full of full-size candy bars.  At night fall we gathered on the front porch, watched fireflies, and enjoyed the cool night air as it passed through the trees.  There were no cell phones and no distractions.  The adults would tell stories, stories that had been passed down for generations.  The stories were rich and sometimes heated. My grandpa would tell stories about the “haintified” house at the edge of the property and promise to take us kids there early the next morning.  The ceilings in that house had been painted haint blue years ago and grandpa explained the reason was to keep evil spirts away.  He knew about the history of the deep south because he lived it.

The morning after arrival proved to be the best. The smell and sound of bacon cooking is permanently etched into my memory as is the rest of breakfast.  Grannie made an amazing breakfast:  A spread of food that seemed to go on forever. The eggs were gathered from the hen house the same morning we ate them.  There was pork chops smothered in red eye gravy, sausage, red potatoes, and scratch made biscuits.  My little hands on the table and my eyes wide watching everyone.  There was a chair next to my grandpa for me.   He would say that I was too skinny, and pile food on my plate.  I would be told “eat this it will stick to your ribs.”

At the table was my aunt, uncle, and their two kids.  In total there were nine of us.  After breakfast we had run of the farm. My sister stayed close to my grandma; I don’t recall what my cousins did with themselves.  I stayed close to my grandpa. We would sit under the pecan tree, and he would tell me things. Things I didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter, I listened to every word and watched him as he spoke. His face and neck were covered with burn scars from being thrown into a fire by a stepparent as a baby.   I didn’t find this out until years later when I asked my mother what the scars were from. He would make me promise to save money when I was an adult, and he would say “above all else stay out of the cement jungle.”    I never understood the cement part until I was well into my thirties.  

There weren’t many of us then and there are even less of us now. Grandpa, grannie, Aunt Norma, Uncle D, and one cousin are gone as is the house.  It held us, protected us, and gave us a place to be together.   I miss the fullness of the house, the sense well-being, and I miss the man himself.   He had a second-grade education the same as Grandma. Her family needed her to pick cotton instead of going to school and that is what she did. They were capable and proud.

I understand now, grandpa.  I have done as you instructed except for the cement jungle part.  I am afraid that I struggle with it every day. But don’t worry; I carry the farm and its lessons with me: 

 Being a desperate single parent doesn’t make one a bad person. 

 Dogs are a gift.  

Hard work pays off.  

Every day is Christmas.

Trees are peaceful and fireflies are magical.  

Being different is completely okay.  

Eat good food that will maintain health. 

It isn’t always best to have a favorite.

Storms can be endured if you remember to not be worried.

Save for a rainy day and be aware of what you are getting yourself into.  

Listen intently to other people’s stories; they are important and so are the people telling them.  

Smart people come from all walks of life.

Never judge anyone: you don’t know their personal circumstances. 

Be proud of who you are, and most of all be ready for change because it’s coming.