I'd like to begin this story at the good and proper place of the beginning, but like every good story, this is a story that started before it started . . .
My life began somewhere in the stern glance of my maternal grandmother. Though I never knew her well I don't know of a life that extends beyond her presence. My lineage is matriarchal; the past three generations of men in the family were adopted so my bloodline can only be traced through the women. My heritage begins with her. She was a strong woman, independent out of necessity. She lived in a small home in a small town on a small hill along with an alcoholic husband, five children, and her own brand of pioneering determinism.
There are many stories about my grandmother, some true, some pure myth. One, of mythic proportions, tells of my Uncle James who once accidentally cut his finger clean off with a hatchet when he was chopping kindling in the forest. According to the story he set for home, wailing all the way. When he arrived, my grandmother took one look and asked, "Where's your finger?" Given that he'd left it behind along with the kindling, she sent him back into the woods to retrieve the digit and then sewed it back on with the tiny stitches of a patient and gifted seamstress. According to legend, the finger was good as new.
My mother was her fourth child. The placement went like this: girl, boy, boy, mom, boy. With her large blue eyes, creamy complexion, and black hair, she resembled her father the most of all the children. This stroke of good fortune sometimes spared her some of my grandfather's drunken beatings for he just couldn't seem to bring himself to hit her with the same regularity as the others; a fortunate tragedy of her reality that won her no favor among her siblings.
My mother's name means "warrior". It seems only fitting, for she learned early that life is hard and you have to fight to protect yourself and those you love. She certainly was a scrapper! One of my favorite stories about her surrounds the case of a bully who beat up her younger brother at school. My mother knew where the bully lived so she went to his home, peered through the screen door into the kitchen where his family was eating supper, and having been raised good and proper, deigned to not interrupt their meal. Instead, she waited on the porch with a baseball bat. When the culprit emerged a short time later ...WHOMP! She clobbered him. That particular action spoke to the fierceness of her character and her loyalty to family, it hardly begins to address her gentle and loving spirit.
