I plan to write some biographical material and I plan to post pictures. Dear reader, please dont expect it to be organized or reasonable. I have "art brain", that is my excuse. The pictures will not match the written material. Life is too short. And, life is too complicated to tie into a neat bundle.
Specifically, as to the writing, I plan to write about a period of time in my life when I lived at the Old Hotel. Coexisted there with my mother, two sisters, little brother and a whole caboodle load of extended, busted brained, family. I was 13 years old and the year was 1956.
Naturally, I plan to take poetic license with the facts. Thank the Dear Goddess for spell check. You will not be pummeled with too much creative spelling.
I plan to write as I go along, completing one or two short episodes a week. More if time permits.
This morning I drafted the first episode, handwritten, on old fashioned paper.
Please indulge me my corny alliteration.
I tried to unify the time frame but it kept getting disorganized. So, am going with the mixed past tense and present tense. Whatever.
THE OLD HOTEL
The Old Hotel was dim, dusty and delightful. The pea sized town of Weir, Mississippi, was weary, wan and wonderful.
After the heyday of train travel, the hotel fell from relevance. It no longer made sense. In the time when travelers tumbled about in automobiles, capillaries of commerce switched from rail to highways. The Old Hotel was bypassed.
For a few years the hotel was not occupied. Then, Aunt Kat bought the decaying heap for a song.
Papa Gordon's room was to the right of the hallway that led to the second story balcony. Just past Aunt Kat's and Unkle Jack's rooms. The old man's room had more light. On a corner, it had twice as many windows to coax sunlight.
Just as I walked through the open door, Papa Gordon shouted, "You are going to Hell!". He was sitting on the end of his bed. Scrawny knob knees angled over the foot board. "Your sinful ways on the wide and crooked are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord." A gnarled finger, like a shot gun, hurled shame on my sinful soul. Then he slammed his fist on the ragged King James Version of the Bible. "Repent", he bellowed.
The air marinated in an intimate odor of chamber pot under the bed. His voice boomed from a ribbed chest thinly drapped with crepe skin. I did not look at his, 'you know what'. My small voice claimed only a sliver of space in the righteous airwaves. "Papa Gordon," I murmured, "let me help you get dressed".
"REPENT!", the vindictive voice almost knocked me down. "REPENT! The way of the cross is the only way. Jesus is preparing a mansion for you in heaven."
Repentance, curiosity and revulsion clatter in my brain. Curiosity is winning. Well, admittedly, I did get a quick, indelible, view of his "thingie" before editing my eyes. Now curiosity is urging a better look at the shriveled pod. Just as I have my courage worked up Dozo walks in. She is dutifully making her rounds.
Dozo assesses the situation like a professional nurse. She sniffs my quandary. Things are not right. She pads out the door.
I drift to the front facing window. Beyond the balcony, across the railroad tracks I see the Saturday, go to to town, country folks. They shoulder bags of feed and seed from the farm store. They buy flour and sugar in bulk from the grocer.
Saturdays are lively days in Weir. Old fashioned subsistance farmers make a weekly outing to pick up supplies and glad mouth. There are two horses harnessed to wooden wagons tied up by the tracks.
Weir, this small dot of earth, is off current, mired in time warp quicksand. Even in 1956, a few farmers still drive horse and wagon to town. They own a few fertile acres. They raise luscious vegetables, fruit, chickens, milk cow and beef cow. They raise abundant barefoot families. The children beg to go on the Saturday trip for supplies. Town is exciting. There are new things and strange people to see.
Deep in the back woods they live in their own little bubble of self sufficiency.
Beyond the balcony, on the near side of the tracks, I am captivated, as I watch a gang of brawny teen boys playing a game of penny toss. My mind disconnects, drifts to the place of nameless longing. The hell fire and damnation fades to quiet static. Standing in my Mary Janes, my body sways gently.
Dozo returns her head held high with self importance. She is followed by Aunt Kat. Dozo has summoned Aunt Kat to handle the naked preacher situation.
I am pulled back to the sunlit room. "Jan", Aunt Kat orders, "go see about your little brother." She is trying to protect my girlish innocence by sending me away. Ive seen my brothers perky pee pee and my grand father's limp ding dong. My protected, guarded innocence is still mostly intact. Aunt Kat picks up Papa Gorden's pajamas from off of the floor.
I wander down the long hall way to the back stairs.
After the heyday of train travel, the hotel fell from relevance. It no longer made sense. In the time when travelers tumbled about in automobiles, capillaries of commerce switched from rail to highways. The Old Hotel was bypassed.
For a few years the hotel was not occupied. Then, Aunt Kat bought the decaying heap for a song.
Papa Gordon's room was to the right of the hallway that led to the second story balcony. Just past Aunt Kat's and Unkle Jack's rooms. The old man's room had more light. On a corner, it had twice as many windows to coax sunlight.
Just as I walked through the open door, Papa Gordon shouted, "You are going to Hell!". He was sitting on the end of his bed. Scrawny knob knees angled over the foot board. "Your sinful ways on the wide and crooked are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord." A gnarled finger, like a shot gun, hurled shame on my sinful soul. Then he slammed his fist on the ragged King James Version of the Bible. "Repent", he bellowed.
The air marinated in an intimate odor of chamber pot under the bed. His voice boomed from a ribbed chest thinly drapped with crepe skin. I did not look at his, 'you know what'. My small voice claimed only a sliver of space in the righteous airwaves. "Papa Gordon," I murmured, "let me help you get dressed".
"REPENT!", the vindictive voice almost knocked me down. "REPENT! The way of the cross is the only way. Jesus is preparing a mansion for you in heaven."
Repentance, curiosity and revulsion clatter in my brain. Curiosity is winning. Well, admittedly, I did get a quick, indelible, view of his "thingie" before editing my eyes. Now curiosity is urging a better look at the shriveled pod. Just as I have my courage worked up Dozo walks in. She is dutifully making her rounds.
Dozo assesses the situation like a professional nurse. She sniffs my quandary. Things are not right. She pads out the door.
I drift to the front facing window. Beyond the balcony, across the railroad tracks I see the Saturday, go to to town, country folks. They shoulder bags of feed and seed from the farm store. They buy flour and sugar in bulk from the grocer.
Saturdays are lively days in Weir. Old fashioned subsistance farmers make a weekly outing to pick up supplies and glad mouth. There are two horses harnessed to wooden wagons tied up by the tracks.
Weir, this small dot of earth, is off current, mired in time warp quicksand. Even in 1956, a few farmers still drive horse and wagon to town. They own a few fertile acres. They raise luscious vegetables, fruit, chickens, milk cow and beef cow. They raise abundant barefoot families. The children beg to go on the Saturday trip for supplies. Town is exciting. There are new things and strange people to see.
Deep in the back woods they live in their own little bubble of self sufficiency.
Beyond the balcony, on the near side of the tracks, I am captivated, as I watch a gang of brawny teen boys playing a game of penny toss. My mind disconnects, drifts to the place of nameless longing. The hell fire and damnation fades to quiet static. Standing in my Mary Janes, my body sways gently.
Dozo returns her head held high with self importance. She is followed by Aunt Kat. Dozo has summoned Aunt Kat to handle the naked preacher situation.
I am pulled back to the sunlit room. "Jan", Aunt Kat orders, "go see about your little brother." She is trying to protect my girlish innocence by sending me away. Ive seen my brothers perky pee pee and my grand father's limp ding dong. My protected, guarded innocence is still mostly intact. Aunt Kat picks up Papa Gorden's pajamas from off of the floor.
I wander down the long hall way to the back stairs.
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