Mam-Maw's House

I usually considered the bi-weekly, weekend trip to my father’s house a vacation from the normality I had been accustomed to when I was a young kid at my mother’s house. Even though they are still married today (almost 20 years now), my mother and step-father seemed to always argue with one another at least three or four times a week. It was never something I enjoyed to witness, but after years of them always fighting, I began to grow numb to their screaming and bickering, and sometimes I just wanted to tell them to shut-up so I could hear the TV. 1

But this night at my father’s house in Arkadelphia was something that rarely happened. There was uneasiness in the air, as my father was grilling barbequed pork chops on the dingy gas grill outside in the freezing rain. My two brothers, step-sister, and I were always forced to sit at the dining room table while my dad and step-mom would sit on the couch so they could get a front-row seat to the all-new episode of Cops or Cheers. Through all six years they were married, this was the only night that I can remember that they got into a big argument. All of us kids were being quiet, talking amongst ourselves, when all-of-a-sudden, my step-mom stood up, with her plate full of a delicious pork chops, sweet, fresh corn off the cob, and a nice side of English green peas, she screamed at my father as if he were a child that wouldn’t want to listen, and threw her plate at the wood-paneled wall, shattering it only two feet away from his head. No matter how good the pork chops were, the small piece I had cut off that was on my fork couldn’t make it into my mouth, even though it was hanging wide open. We sat there in shock, not really knowing how to react. My father calmly stood up and said, “Boys, go get some clothes. We’re leaving.”2

Nine O’clock on a Saturday night and we’re packing some clothes to go to some unknown place. It might not seem like much, but it was rather exciting for an 8-year-old boy, such as myself. Since we had only been eating for a few minutes, my father pulled the raggedy ’88 Ford into the local McDonald’s to get me and my brother’s a happy meal. I really liked McDonald’s, but no one grilled pork chops better than my father. 3

With a full belly of greasy and salty fries and a cheeseburger that had way too much mustard for my tastes, and a stupid Little Mermaid toy in my hands, we departed in the dark to a place I had no idea of where we would end up.4

It was a little after midnight when I remember my father waking me up, telling me that we were “here.” With squinty eyes and breath that still wreaked of fast food, I got out of the car to the sight of my Maw-maw Pete standing outside on the porch, hugging my two brothers as they walked up to her with their backpacks full of clothes. My father walked behind me as I stumbled up to the door, still in a sleepy daze. Maw-maw wrapped me up with her arms in her tiny, five-foot figure, sending a sense of warmth over me that my big red coat was unable to deliver. I walked inside to the house right off the country highway, threw my backpack down on the couch that was covered with plastic, and walked straight into the next room and plopped down on my uncle’s old bed and fell asleep.5

Straight out of a book of clichés, I opened my sleep-ridden eyes to the sight of the rising sun through the dusty blinds on the window, as the rooster let it be known to anyone within a two-mile radius, that it was time to wake up and become productive. I really hated that old, red rooster. It was Saturday and I wanted to sleep. This was only one of two days I got out of every week that I didn’t have to worry about addition and subtraction, spelling tests, and disgusting fruit cups at lunchtime. Yet, when the rooster lets out his call, unless you were blessed with being deaf at birth, you must get out of bed if you live on a farm. 6

Still wearing my clothes from the previous day and a hairdo that Kramer of Seinfeld would have been proud of, I got out of the bed to the savory smells of scrambled eggs (the only good thing that damn rooster was ever possible of creating), toast that was perfectly browned with a side of homemade grape jelly, and bacon that was harder than the wooden floor I walked on. My Mam-Maw was an amazing cook, and I loved waking up to a country breakfast every time I spent the night at her house, but the poor woman was just unable to cook bacon right. 7

My father and brothers had already awakened before me, which was something I always hated as a child. Being the only “chubby” one out of all the males in my family, besides my mother’s brother, it made me feel even lazier than I already did. My older twin-brothers were glued to the couch, whether it be because of The Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show or because of the plastic covering, while my father was in the kitchen reading the comics while drinking a hot cup of scorching black coffee. “Boys! Breakfast is ready,” said my Mam-Maw from the kitchen, right across from the living room. We all hurriedly rushed in, sitting at the table waiting to eat some good old-fashioned breakfast; except the burnt bacon, of course. Mam-maw poured me a large class of whole milk, as I spread her sweet and chunky grape jelly over my toast. Then all-of-a-sudden a loud belch came from my Mam-maw’s room. It wasn’t a belch that sounded like anyone else’s I ever heard. It was one that could only come from one person, my Papaw. 8

He walked into the kitchen, with only grey sweatpants and long white socks on. His belly was something to behold; sticking out at least a foot from his waste, perfectly shaped like a pregnant woman, with his belly button sticking out like it’s a small toe. I loved my Papaw so much; how he would sit at his end of the table, reading the morning newspaper, while drinking coffee, and whistling some 50’s tune, I’m guessing, with short intermissions to take a hit from his inhaler. I don’t think I ever remember him talking during breakfast. My Mam-maw made up for his loss of words by interweaving between asking us kids and my father how school and work have been, by asking us if we needed anymore eggs or yummy bacon. 9

After breakfast was over, we went back into the living room to catch what was left of the Saturday morning cartoon line-up. My Mam-maw, fully-dressed in dirty blue jeans that seemed like they had been through the Great Depression, all the way through the Cold War, and a button up work-shirt, she threw several logs into the large furnace in the living room to keep us warm. I guess growing up in the country your entire life and living on a farm, it was impossible for you to take a break and just relax. Since she wasn’t able to, she was going to make sure that we weren’t going to be able to, either. “One of you boys go get in the shower,” she said. Being the youngest, my mean brothers had a way of forcing me to do things they didn’t want to do. I’m guessing it had to do with them being twins and what a better way to show their elderliness and power over their little brother than to make him miss the Foghorn Leghorn cartoon  by making him go get into the shower. I didn’t care. I was just going to make sure they enjoyed that cartoon as much as they would enjoy the cold showers they were going to have to take.10

Squeaky clean and smelling like a shampooed rose, I put on my pants, Hulk Hogan shirt, and dirty black Converse’s and headed outside into the exciting world of my grandparent’s farm in Star City, Arkansas. 11

Their carport reminded me of almost a junkyard, but one that the owner knew where everything was at. Everything from tinker toys that had been passed on from my uncles to my brothers and me, to large black trash bags filled with aluminum cans, engulfed the place where I thought cars were supposed to sit to be shielded from the rain. I always had to walk onto the carport first thing every morning to look at the power meter that hung above the door where the large freezer, that contained all the yummy ice cream sandwiches my Mam-maw stashed away, which told me if the electrical fence that surrounded the area with the pigs was on or off. The light was glowing a bright red, so I knew to be careful if I happened to wonder to the back of the farm where the pigs wallowed in their mud pit.12

I jumped off the porch, running past the dingy smokehouse, which was more of a storage house for feed and random junk, to walk into the entrance of the barn. Jack and Jill, the two mules that my grandparents had for longer than I was alive, stood at their feeding stand, licking their salt blocks with their long tongues, while swishing their long, brushy black tails back and forth, shooing away the bugs that were probably more of an annoyance to them than my brothers were to me. I had always been told to never walk directly behind Jack and Jill, because they were known to kick when anyone walked behind them too close. To this day, I am relatively scared of horses and mules, but as a child, Jack and Jill were my friends. I stood beside Jill, petting her neck, as she licked the block like it was a melting popsicle, telling her about random childish things, including my girlfriend Leigh Anne and the harsh realities of never winning at “Duck-Duck-Goose.” 13

After several minutes of spilling my life story to Jill, I carefully walked past them, making sure I didn’t get anywhere close to their comfort zone, passing the horrible stench of the chicken coup. I saw that damn rooster sitting on top of the tin-roof covered coup, cawing at his hens. I would most likely still be in bed, dreaming of being in a fight with Raphael and Donatello of the Ninja Turtles, if it wasn’t for his bright red and black little body that his shriek bellowed from. Out of sheer hate for him ruining my Saturday morning, I did what any other kid would do: I threw the biggest rock I could find right at his beak. Even though I didn’t hit him, I really hoped he felt the anger and hate that it was thrown by. Maybe that would teach him to think twice about waking us all up the next morning.14

Standing next to the coup for more than five minutes was such an assault against your nose, you had to move along. I jumped in between the mule droppings briquettes that were still steamy, and the ones that were hard enough to throw at someone to really piss them off. This was something my father, aunt, and two uncles seemed to do a lot when they were all together on the farm. I guessed that the 60’s and 70’s really lacked the entertainment value that modern times had, so back then you must have had to resort to throwing mule dung at your brothers and sisters. I stopped in my tracks for a second, looked to the partly cloudy sky, covered in random streaks from the jets that flew above, and thanked God for the greatness that is cable TV. Between the small, smelly chicken coup and the area the pigs stayed, there was just a large open field area that was the size of two football fields. Unfortunately, we never used this area for playing football because of Jack and Jill’s inability to use the bathroom where no one walks. I just stood there, dancing gaily in circles, loving being a child, with absolutely no worries in the world. It was easy to escape the present reality and just let my imagination take over for the moment. 15

In the distance, there were houses that were slightly hidden by the pine trees and dead honeysuckle bushes. I heard a young girl screaming far away, and even though I was slightly alarmed that something was wrong, I imagined I was a superhero, running with my arms spread out, as if they were wings, pretending I was Superman, flying to save this girl from the peril of the evil demented Doomsday. My comic book adventure ended abruptly as I stepped into the warm, gooey greatness that Jack or Jill left for me probably an hour before.16

Since I was already dirty, I felt that I might as well go make one with the filthiest creatures of them all, the pigs that were kept in an enclosed area at the back of the farm. I was careful to stay a few feet back from the electrical fence, to be sure that the manure on the bottom of my shoes was my only worry for that day. The plump pigs walked around, snorting to one another, becoming a somewhat pleasant symphony to my ears. 17

After several minutes of speaking to all of the sixteen pigs, which I all named “Wilber” from Charlotte’s Web, I walked around the 10 acres of my grandparents’ farm jumping between reality and dreams, forgetting the anger I had earlier that morning of the rooster that woke me up way too early. I forgot about the bewilderment of why my father and step-mom had gotten in a fight the night before, and if my mother and step-father would be screaming at each other the moment we would arrive back home Sunday night. The only thing I thought about was how much I loved having all of those friends on my grandparent’s farm, and no matter how many times I sat and talked to the animals, I never witnessed them ever fighting with one another.18