Grandpa Clyde never stopped
to see us until daddy went to Parchman Prison to serve three years for shooting
a man when they were both three sheets in the wind. That’s what Mississippi folks called being
drunk. He yelled whoa at the lathered
Jim and Pete, his matching pair of mules, as they entered the yard having been
trotted the ten miles to our house.
Dottie, our Tennessee coon hound nipped at
their hooves as they came to a halt. “J.
J. get that dog away from them mules. That dog is just like you
kids-worthless”. Betsy, ten years old, put her arms around six year old Carol
who was sniffing trying not to cry. Both
looked at their dirty bare feet wiggling their toes in the dust. Grabbing Dottie by the collar, I kneeled by them
feeling the ground thru the knees of my ragged overalls. All three of us stared at him with hatred as
he stumbled on the broken door step.
Knowing
he would only be inside long enough to talk to mama and get a dipper of water,
Betsy and Carol eased toward the door of our one room shotgun shack. They were my lookouts as I stole from
grandpa’s wagon filled with yellow corn, red tomatoes and luscious green
watermelons. Grabbing tomatoes, onions and corn, I dashed
to hide them in Dottie’s dog house. I
was always tempted to steal a watermelon but that would be missed causing
trouble for mama. When the old wagon
started up the road toward town, I grabbed my stash and ran inside.
Mama never scolded me for stealing from grandpa. Around back of the house, I helped mama with
her garden but there was not enough rain or too much. Meals
were usually potato soup or biscuits and homemade gravy. Bossy was going to calf any day so there wasn’t
any milk. The only chicken we had left
was a shrewd Dominet grey and white rooster who had managed to stay out of the ferocious
jaws of the many fox that roamed the hills and mama’s stew pot.
Now that I was trying at thirteen to be the man of the
house I believed mama when she said grandpa was the meanest and stingiest man
that ever lived. She was the youngest of
nine children working on the farm from daylight until the last ray of light
left the sky. Going to school only
during the winter months, she never had a pencil with an eraser. Grandpa always broke the pencils giving the
eraser end to the older siblings.
Hearing Dottie yelping, mama and I wiped sweat
from our burning eyes to see Sheriff Autry turning the corner of the house.
Terrifying thoughts flashed thru our minds.
“Earline, it’s not about Davis
but Clyde filed for custody of the kids claiming you can’t feed them. I can’t allow you to stay here alone. I’ll be by tomorrow to get all of you.”
“You know he just wants us to work but I can’t fight the
law. We’ll be ready about noon.” Turning
toward me, he said, “Jeremiah, help the girls get their things together.”He’s
the only one to call me Jeremiah. I have
always been called J.J. even through I was baptized Jeremiah Jenkins Andrews.
Grandpa was vicious and spiteful. There was plenty of
food but we could only have sorghum and cornbread. He seemed to delight in making us miserable.
Carol cried a lot upset for being away from home causing grandpa to be even
more hateful. Our troubles accelerated
when one night Carol knocked her plate off the homemade plank table.
Grandpa giving Carol a menacing look said “Get down and
eat off the floor”.
Mama was a petite woman but stood up to the sassy old man. “Pa, she’s not eating off the floor”.
Grandpa jumping to his feet roared, “She’ll go hungry.”
“No, she won’t.
I’ve got two eggs. You’ll do
without at breakfast.”
Grandpa slammed the door
without looking back. When mama got riled, grandpa knew to leave her alone
especially when it came to us kids. Pa
never beat us the way our cousins were beaten by their pa. When pa was drinking
wanting to whip one of us, ma was like a she-bear protecting her cubs. I got
plenty of whippings but not when pa was drinking.
Early the next morning, Grandpa was going to town. My job was to hitch the mules to the
wagon. I found two cockleburs and put
one under each of their collars.
Watching grandpa climb into the wagon, I had to hide a grin. Sitting on the wagon seat he pulled on the
reins and yelled “giddy up.” Being
unable to control the mules, grandpa grabbed the seat while Jim and Pete bucked
kicking up dust and tangling the harness.
When I finally calmed the mules, the chains were tangled and their
collars were under their necks. The
cockleburs fell to the ground as we tried to rearrange the harness. Quickly turning on me, grandpa knocked me to
the ground reigning blow after blow.
Covering my head with my arms, I saw mama hit
grandpa with a stick of stove wood. Mama
yelled, “J.J. hitch those mules and get to the house.” “Get the girls and our
things. We’re going home.” Mama grabbed flour, sugar, lard and jars of
food as I helped Carol and Betsy into the wagon.
After we unloaded the wagon and turned the mules toward home, I
knew mama was worried as darkness crept over the horizon about grandpa coming
for revenge. We were flabbergasted when a middle of the
night noise revealed daddy at the door.
Grabbing him, mama said “Davis you’re home.” We were astounded that he was released after
ten months for good behavior.
Dottie barking woke us from a sound sleep to find Sheriff Autry
and grandpa in the yard. Anxiety showed
on their faces as daddy opened the door.
“Davis, I didn’t know you were here.
Clyde said Earline and the kids stole some food.”
“Pat, I’m home. Clyde
worked them like slaves. I don’t want to
go back to prison but you had best get him out of my yard.
Turning to grandpa he said, “Clyde, go home
before Pat has to carry you in a paper bag.”
As the years passed, grandpa and his wagon pulled by the aging Jim
and Pete never stopped by our house.
Betsy and Carol went to school. I
dropped out to help work the farm. Daddy disheartened at never getting ahead
took to drinking more and more.
The farm has been sold. Mama, daddy and grandpa are gone. I never talk to Betsy and Carol. I’m locked away at Parchman Prison serving
life without parole for murder. Daddy
was beating mama when I grabbed him shoving him down making his head hit the
stove. The judge and jury wouldn’t believe it was accidental. I’m singing in the chain gang and chopping
cotton.
I’m chopping in the bottom
wid a hundred years
Tree fall on me, I don’t bit no more care
Ho, Rosie
You told a promise when you fit met me
Well now you Wasn’t going to marry, till uh
I go free Big-leg Rosie, with her big leg drawers
Got me wearing those striped overalls.
_______________________
By Revia “Jenks” Perrigin