When I get to where I'm going,
I'll be where I started from .....
All the people in between will be nothing but a dream,
I wonder is it ghosts I walk among - Sad Daddy
He came walking out of the mist, a tall figure in old clothes and barefoot, a fishing pole over one shoulder and a tin lunch bucket in the other. He was whistling an old, nearly forgotten Johnny Cash tune and at first, I was sure he was a ghost. This was confirmed when my grandmother, briskly sweeping off the back porch, paled and stopped in mid-stroke, one hand flying to her mouth in astonishment. Dear Lord, I heard her say, He's come back from the dead! The stranger approached down the gravel driveway and onto the grass while Nana, clutching her broom so tightly that her knuckles turned white, backed up steadily. When she hit the side of the house, she seemed to push harder, as if she could will herself though the walls. He hailed her with a cheerful shout, Don't have a coniption, Alice, I ain't dead! My grandmother shrieked, a high pitched, panicky sound as unfamiliar as anything I'd ever heard, then threw her broom to the ground and began to cry. The man in the old clothes reached her, dropped his fishing pole and lunch bucket and gave her a long hug, patting her back and whispering, letting her cry freely, a sight I could never have imagined in my wildest and most fanciful dreams. Nana? I asked, with a timid tug on her apron, Is he a ghost? They disentangled and he laughed outloud, she joined in and then through her tears and in a shaky voice she told me, No, hon, 'bout the last thing he is on God's green earth, the very last, is a ghost.
There was something about her voice or perhaps in her eyes that made me give up on my game of jacks and suddenly burst into tears - then in one quick, fluid motion, the stranger had knelt to my level and extended his hand. I'm Tag, he said gravely, I'm an old friend of your grandmother's and it's right nice to meet you. His blue eyes were kind, the hand he held out was thin wristed but tanned, and his voice was exactly the right blend of reassurance and sincerity. With his free hand, he produced a denim handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to me.
And who are your friends? he asked and when I looked around, I saw that both the dogs had appeared and were looking up at him with interest and instant acceptance, heads cocked and tails wagging. I had no idea who this man was or where he had come from, but if he was good enough for the dogs and Nana, then he was good enough for me. I shook his hand and he grinned.
It had never occurred to me that my grandmother had ever been a young girl or might have had a life apart from her family and my grandfather - she was simply Nana, a force for stability, a protector of children, a storyteller and caregiver. She was always there to intervene, to arbitrate, to set ground rules and explain the mysteries of childhood, to mete out punishment as well as rewards, to be trusted with secrets, to wave trouble away with a tone of voice or a hug. For a moment on the back porch though, as Tag materialized out of the fog and walked toward her, I caught a glimpse of another time. Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, for just a second or two I was so close to clarity - a young, probably thin, dark haired girl in long skirts and button boots ( in case she might be tempted to show a flash of ankle ) with a puffy sleeved shirtwaist - laughing and falling in love on a clear summer afternoon. She'd have been carrying flowers and wearing hair ribbons and her brown eyes would've been full of sparkle. The image faded away almost as soon as it had formed, I barely had time to consider it.
Tag stayed the day, mostly sitting on the old whitewashed side porch with Nana, so close that their shoulders and hips were touching. I heard their low voices and laughter echo 'round the house until the sun went down, She's making a spectacle of herself and at her age, my mother wailed, God knows what people will say!
My daddy, perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, whistling "People Will Say We're in Love", appeared in the kitchen with an armload of linens. Stop it, Guy! my mother snapped at him. Damn fine writers, Rodgers and Hammerstein, he said mildly and gave me a wink.
I'll be where I started from .....
All the people in between will be nothing but a dream,
I wonder is it ghosts I walk among - Sad Daddy
He came walking out of the mist, a tall figure in old clothes and barefoot, a fishing pole over one shoulder and a tin lunch bucket in the other. He was whistling an old, nearly forgotten Johnny Cash tune and at first, I was sure he was a ghost. This was confirmed when my grandmother, briskly sweeping off the back porch, paled and stopped in mid-stroke, one hand flying to her mouth in astonishment. Dear Lord, I heard her say, He's come back from the dead! The stranger approached down the gravel driveway and onto the grass while Nana, clutching her broom so tightly that her knuckles turned white, backed up steadily. When she hit the side of the house, she seemed to push harder, as if she could will herself though the walls. He hailed her with a cheerful shout, Don't have a coniption, Alice, I ain't dead! My grandmother shrieked, a high pitched, panicky sound as unfamiliar as anything I'd ever heard, then threw her broom to the ground and began to cry. The man in the old clothes reached her, dropped his fishing pole and lunch bucket and gave her a long hug, patting her back and whispering, letting her cry freely, a sight I could never have imagined in my wildest and most fanciful dreams. Nana? I asked, with a timid tug on her apron, Is he a ghost? They disentangled and he laughed outloud, she joined in and then through her tears and in a shaky voice she told me, No, hon, 'bout the last thing he is on God's green earth, the very last, is a ghost.
There was something about her voice or perhaps in her eyes that made me give up on my game of jacks and suddenly burst into tears - then in one quick, fluid motion, the stranger had knelt to my level and extended his hand. I'm Tag, he said gravely, I'm an old friend of your grandmother's and it's right nice to meet you. His blue eyes were kind, the hand he held out was thin wristed but tanned, and his voice was exactly the right blend of reassurance and sincerity. With his free hand, he produced a denim handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to me.
And who are your friends? he asked and when I looked around, I saw that both the dogs had appeared and were looking up at him with interest and instant acceptance, heads cocked and tails wagging. I had no idea who this man was or where he had come from, but if he was good enough for the dogs and Nana, then he was good enough for me. I shook his hand and he grinned.
It had never occurred to me that my grandmother had ever been a young girl or might have had a life apart from her family and my grandfather - she was simply Nana, a force for stability, a protector of children, a storyteller and caregiver. She was always there to intervene, to arbitrate, to set ground rules and explain the mysteries of childhood, to mete out punishment as well as rewards, to be trusted with secrets, to wave trouble away with a tone of voice or a hug. For a moment on the back porch though, as Tag materialized out of the fog and walked toward her, I caught a glimpse of another time. Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, for just a second or two I was so close to clarity - a young, probably thin, dark haired girl in long skirts and button boots ( in case she might be tempted to show a flash of ankle ) with a puffy sleeved shirtwaist - laughing and falling in love on a clear summer afternoon. She'd have been carrying flowers and wearing hair ribbons and her brown eyes would've been full of sparkle. The image faded away almost as soon as it had formed, I barely had time to consider it.
Tag stayed the day, mostly sitting on the old whitewashed side porch with Nana, so close that their shoulders and hips were touching. I heard their low voices and laughter echo 'round the house until the sun went down, She's making a spectacle of herself and at her age, my mother wailed, God knows what people will say!
My daddy, perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, whistling "People Will Say We're in Love", appeared in the kitchen with an armload of linens. Stop it, Guy! my mother snapped at him. Damn fine writers, Rodgers and Hammerstein, he said mildly and gave me a wink.
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