More Than A Day Away By Mike Steely
Until I was six years old, my mother, sister, brother and I lived with my grandmother in her small country house up a country dirt road near other family members. My grandmother was a small woman with strong control of our family. Often there were us kids, neighbor kids and cousins, sitting together on the front porch, looking out at the road and the meadow below, and telling stories.
My family were talkers, we all loved to share stories, whether true or not. Often, the stories were a combination of both. Whatever made the stories better was used to dress up the tale.
My cousin, Gail, was one of the best tale tellers and once, with the kids and adults sitting on the porch, stepped out onto the front yard and started this whimsical story that included a ghost horse. She backed down toward the road, looked up and down, and then shouted that the ghost horse was coming.
Immediately, a loose horse came galloping down the road at full speed, past Gail, and on down toward town. We were shocked, scared and delighted with the climax of her tale.
There were many other storytellers in my family, and possibly that’s why I ended up as a writer and reporter.
My grandmother was stern and expected good behavior. Once she scolded me and then showed me a big butcher knife, turned it on its side to flatten the blade, and threatened to whip me with it if I didn’t straighten up. The threat was very effective.
I remember when Uncle Ed was just back from the Army and partied often on the weekends. We often found him asleep in the smaller back room, where he slept sometimes until afternoon. Ed had an old Ford, and several of us kids were taking a ride with him one evening to town and back. When we neared Grandma’s house, he told us a story about a dead baby that had been found near there once.
As we passed a small ditch bank hole, a small cloud of mist floated up in front of the car and stayed there. Ed swore it was the ghost of the baby and sped well up the hollow before the little cloud flew away. I remember not sleeping well that night.
Saturdays were special days when the family got together. My mom and aunt were off from their sewing factory jobs on weekends, and the women would cook all day in preparation for Sundays, when no cooking was permitted because it was God’s Day of Rest.
I remember being told not to touch the coal cook stove, but I didn’t listen, and to this day, I have a scar on my left arm from that encounter.
Saturdays were also kid bath days. A large wash tub was filled with hot water, and we’d line up in the kitchen where we, one by one, took a bath or were bathed, head to foot. After that, we were not permitted to go back outside to play in the dirt wall near the lane that led up to the smokehouse.
Growing up in the country, poverty is eased when the family stays together and shares food, clothing, bedding and, most importantly, stories. When my wife and I moved back to that small town, I often met with my grandmother to hear family history and tall tales.
So, today, please forgive me if I start a family or personal tale. As I said, I’m from a family of talkers. Thank goodness I can still remember some of those wonderful stories.
