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Stories
from Rural America
Driving
to Grandma’s
By: Gary K.
Gray
“LEON.”
I Said.
This
was the view from the rear window of the car as we
exited Versailles. My sisters had no clue what I
was talking about, they seldom did. They were busy
doing their bouncing and I was stuck in between
them. Sometimes they would bounce in unison and the
car would surge forward and back as though it were
dragging an anchor that would occasionally grab and
then let go of the road, only in synchronous
fashion. Other times, they would bounce
alternately, which made the car wobble as it sped
along the road, again in perfect synchronization as
though the axles were bent.
I
had no preference. Being stuck in the middle of the
back seat between two bouncing girls was misery
enough. My only recourse was to play dead. I found
that I could disrupt the bouncing if I limbered my
body and fell on one of my sisters. It was hard to
bounce with a dead boy on top of you.
Mom
had wrapped fried chicken in aluminum foil for the
trip and tucked it in her purse. She waited for the
kids to fall asleep before she would eat it. Both
of my sisters were asleep and I was still playing
dead when mom pulled the little foil pack from her
purse. She barely had it from her purse when my
older sister was aroused from her slumber by the
smell of cold fried chicken still wrapped in 6
layers of foil. An amazing feat to say the least as
mom had also packed a 5 gallon bucket of slop in
the back of the wagon. The slop was for
Grandma’s pigs. Why we had to haul slop across
the country was a mystery, but that’s the way
things were done in this family. Couldn’t make
a trip to the farm without bringing slop and there
would most certainly be a deficit of slop on the
farm. Weird.
“I
smell meat!” She bellowed, raising her head
from the window frame. “Get off of me
creep!” She pushed my dead body until I
flopped to my youngest sister’s lap.
“Mom!
Gary’s playing dead again, tell him to
quit!” My sister Laura screamed, waking from
her nappy. “What’s that smell?” She
continued, leaning forward, gazing at my
mother.
“It’s
Chicken.” Mom answered.
“Where’s
mine?” Cathy asked.
“You
don’t get any.” Mom replied.
“But
I’m hungry.” Cathy whined.
“You’ll
have to wait until we get to your
Grandmothers.” Grandma’s was another 30
minutes away at best, she would probably starve
before then I hoped.
“Mom,
tell Gary to get off!” Laura pushed on my dead
body again. I wouldn’t budge; I was seeking
revenge for having to endure the earlier bouncing
and had now bestowed the added comfort of drool to
my sister’s lap.
“Gary.
Stop pestering your sisters.” Mom said as she
gnawed into her chicken leg.
“Mom,
it’s not fair you get chicken and we
don’t.” Laura said.
“Your
food is behind you.” I said, waking from my
dead state and reaching for the bucket of
slop.
“There’s
my dream house.” Mom mumbled with her mouth
full of chicken, pointing to what had to be the
most dilapidated house in the state of Kentucky.
Every time we drove through Keene, she would say
the same thing. What was probably a house 30 years
before was now a mere pile of rotted lumber sitting
precariously on top of a pile of limestone rocks.
It still had the very basic form of a house but the
only thing living in that hovel would be snakes and
insects, I imagined.
“When
are we moving?” I asked, being the consummate
smart aleck. No reply. We passed through Keene and
were now in the open countryside.
Ahead,
along the side of the road my father spotted a car
sitting in the ditch. He pulled to a gentle stop
behind the car and we could see a woman still
sitting in the front seat. Dad walked to the car
and chatted for a few minutes then helped the lady
from the car and assisted her into ours.
Apparently, she had a tire blow out and had
careened into the ditch; striking her head on the
dashboard she received a cut on her forehead and
was bleeding badly.
“We’re
taking her to the hospital.” Dad announced.
You kids scoot over and make room. The skinny old
lady was dripping blood down her blouse so we moved
as far away from her as possible to make room in
the already overcrowded back seat of the station
wagon. Mom gave her a towel to place over her cut
and Dad drove to the nearest hospital in
Lexington.
The
ventilation in the car was poor and rolling the
windows down in winter wasn’t an option and it
was getting fairly uncomfortable in the back seat.
There I sat pressed between two obnoxious sisters
and a moaning old lady bleeding all over us and the
smell of fresh slop wafting from only two feet away
while my mother continued chomping fried chicken. I
vomited. Mom was out of towels.
We
got to the hospital and Dad took care to see the
bleeding lady into the emergency room and make sure
her family knew where to find her and we were soon
back on our way to Grandma’s.
We
made it to Nicholasville and drove past the old
courthouse. As always, the same scruffy old men
were sitting on the stone wall, talking their old
men talk and drinking their whisky from bottles
wrapped in brown paper bags. I spotted the old
green civil war cannon still parked on the
courthouse lawn and imagined the old men getting
drunk and firing it at the courthouse.
Almost
to Grandma’s now, about half way between
Nicholasville and the farm, we passed the old
country store. There was Pappy Locker, walking the
roads as usual. Every time we drove here we’d
spot Pappy Locker walking along the old winding
country roads. He must have been 90 years old,
wearing the same old brown suit and ragged fedora
on his head. He was a fixture along the country
roads. He waved at us as we drove by. He waved at
anything that passed him.
Aunt
Irene lived a few miles up the road from Grandma.
Her chicken’s ran loose all of the time and
were generally found in the middle of the road. Dad
slowed the car down as we approached the flock of
chickens. Most of the chickens sauntered off the
road, but one remained, our favorite chicken, the
one that had run through mud and straw for a week.
The accumulation of mud and straw on this chickens
feet gave the impression of a chicken wearing
combat boots. We called it the
“Clod-Hopper” chicken. No trip to
Grandma’s would be complete without the
“Clod-Hopper” chicken standing in the
middle of the road. It eventually waddled off the
road and we made it to Grandma’s house without
further incident.
It
was Christmas time. The old coal stoves she used to
heat the ancient farm house emitted a pungent smell
into the air. I loved the smell of coal burning. It
was a much better smell than a car full of slop and
vomit and fried chicken. I took the slop to the
pigs as quickly as possible. Grandma had more fried
chicken inside so my sisters got their reward for
putting up with me. For the remainder of the
weekend, we enjoyed a grand holiday visit at our
Grandmother’s house on the farm.
On
the return trip home, we approached Versailles and
hanging across the road at the entrance of the city
along with the other holiday decorations was a
festive holiday sign with NOEL written in garland
and bright little Christmas lights. Another sign
lighting the roadway just like this one greeted
travelers on the other end of town as well. As we
exited Versailles my sisters had finished their
bouncing and were sound asleep. Mom was eating more
of Grandma’s fried chicken. Dad was watching
the road for hazards and I was back from the dead,
silently peering through the back window of the car
as we passed under the sign on the other end of
town.
“LEON”.
I said.
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Gary Gray is a Veteran of the US
Navy and has worked for The Wall Street
Journal since 1981. He presently lives in
Denver, Colorado. He is a student of the
Paranormal. He writes short stories, some
of which you can view on his website at
http://home.earthlink.net/~radiodenver/
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