Memories of Home
I was in Texas for a stopover. My mother’s family was having a reunion in the old school on the mountain. I went out. I didn’t know most of the people. To them I was Betty’s boy, a small memory in a full life. Among these semi strangers was an aunt that I’d known only by name. She left Texas the year I was born, but her name had majic. Juanita. Whenever stories were told of times where fun or interesting things had happened, her name had always come up. I’d never met her. And there she was. 70 years old. Elegant, in a room full of normal. She had come from Virginia to see the family.
I listened.
Tootsie they had called her. One only had to look at the easy smile, happy eyes, and full figure to know why this woman would bear the name tootsie. It fit like a glove. Later in the day I found her later standing under a live oak tree. She was looking out over the the brown sun baked pasture, dotted with scrub and ceder. I decided to join her. Two Texas expatriots, home, together. It seemed right.
You’re Juanita, formerlly known as Tootsie? She laughed a majic laugh. Tootsie and few other names yes. I introduced my self. Sorry that I had to remind her that my grandfather was dead in order for her to place me. He had been her brother.
I shared her gaze over the country we had both grown up in, a generation removed.
Beautiful, isn’t it.
No. She said it’s not beautiful. She was right. It was sun baked, dry, and the trees had to be a hundred years old just to be big enough to give shade. It was home, but it wasn’t beautiful. Not when the temperature in the shade was 102 degrees.
I left here 40 years ago. She said. I think of moving back.
Her husband had been dead for 14 years. She was alone except for scattered children and grand children. All of which were raised well enough to not need a grandmother. But human enough to want one. As much as she wanted them.
My yards too big. She continued.
I nodded.
I replied, It’s hard to have a nice yard here. Nothing grows good here except for weeds and other things you don’t want to grow. She didn’t need the reminder. We collectively looked at the johnson grass that covered the fence line in front of us.
She told me about my great grandfather.
Her father. A man that died the year I was born. My mother was 8 months pregnant.
No one had ever spoke of him to me before. I listened.
She was right about the Texas scrub, It wasn’t beautiful, but it had been home, once.
I listened.
Tootsie they had called her. One only had to look at the easy smile, happy eyes, and full figure to know why this woman would bear the name tootsie. It fit like a glove. Later in the day I found her later standing under a live oak tree. She was looking out over the the brown sun baked pasture, dotted with scrub and ceder. I decided to join her. Two Texas expatriots, home, together. It seemed right.
You’re Juanita, formerlly known as Tootsie? She laughed a majic laugh. Tootsie and few other names yes. I introduced my self. Sorry that I had to remind her that my grandfather was dead in order for her to place me. He had been her brother.
I shared her gaze over the country we had both grown up in, a generation removed.
Beautiful, isn’t it.
No. She said it’s not beautiful. She was right. It was sun baked, dry, and the trees had to be a hundred years old just to be big enough to give shade. It was home, but it wasn’t beautiful. Not when the temperature in the shade was 102 degrees.
I left here 40 years ago. She said. I think of moving back.
Her husband had been dead for 14 years. She was alone except for scattered children and grand children. All of which were raised well enough to not need a grandmother. But human enough to want one. As much as she wanted them.
My yards too big. She continued.
I nodded.
I replied, It’s hard to have a nice yard here. Nothing grows good here except for weeds and other things you don’t want to grow. She didn’t need the reminder. We collectively looked at the johnson grass that covered the fence line in front of us.
She told me about my great grandfather.
Her father. A man that died the year I was born. My mother was 8 months pregnant.
No one had ever spoke of him to me before. I listened.
She was right about the Texas scrub, It wasn’t beautiful, but it had been home, once.