Randy Briggs

Email: nametoblame@hotmail.com

The summer of my 9th year my brother I were sent to live with my grandparents. It was not our fault, the pseudo-adoption; rather, my single mother had some problems of her own. As a result we were delivered to Paul and Wanda's front door step in dirty sweats and unwashed hair. I do not remember our first meeting, Grandma and Grandpa Gooch as I called them, but I do remember that their refrigerator seemed to burst with food. It was the greatest place on earth. I spent most of my innocent childhood here with my grandparents. They raised me during a very important time: the stages of life where children are most heavily influenced by their surroundings.

My grandfather was such a tall man. He wore thick and mismatched clothes that covered his military frame head to toe -if it was cold. In the summer he wore thin clothes or no clothes at all while pacing the house in his boxers unaware or unembarrassed whichever the case. He continually smelled of oil or cut grass from his daily shop work or walks with the dog; he rarely bathed. Needless to say his presence was clear to the nose, but the scent was not offensive; it was intimidating, but inviting; it became familiar and warm. He always talked so loudly and constantly asked me to repeat myself. "Louder." Grandma Gooch told me he couldn't hear thunder over his own thinking. He must have been an intelligent man because he always asked me to speak louder.

My grandparents created the wonderful idea of eating dinner every night. I always rushed to the table bearing my perpetual hunger. Grandma usually grinned at my mouth full of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and green beans(which she made me eat). The first few weeks were spectacular; I could eat as much food as I wanted all at the same time! But this soon grew tiresome and the bulge in my belly began to be less and less comfortable until pleasure melted into pain. This was a different pain that I once asked my mother about. That pain was sharp and skinny. This pain was big and dull. I complained to my grandmother and she chuckled. "You just ate to much, that's all." I heard my grandfather ask "What?", in his usual elevated voice.

The next day I repeated this procedure: I ate until my stomach hurt. After I had eaten enough I began to scrape the food into the trash can. My grandfather jumped from his seat and walked towards me. I felt his strong grip wrap around my wrist as he asked me what I was doing. I did not know exactly what to answer for his firmness made me nervous and I was not sure if the shaking came from my arm or his hand. "What are you doing with that food?" His height and scent would not allow me to reply. "Sit back down and finish your meal boy. We don't throw away food around here." I at first looked to my brother who did not look in my direction. I then looked at Grandma Gooch who nodded for me to return to my seat. "Now, I want every last bit of that food gone before that plate is put on the counter. Do you hear me?" I thought it odd that he asked if I could hear him. "Never waste! Ever!" My silent nod satisfied. Truly, there are worse things than being forced to eat more food.

My grandfather spent most of his time outside working in his "Very own Hoover-Ville" as Grandma Gooch called it. His activities included handy work, gardening, simple construction, walking the dog, feeding birds, mowing lawns, or raking and burning leaves: typical retired man chores. In the backyard there was a shed (Hoover-Ville) and an addition to the house that he called "The shop." His tasks were performed in some manner in or about these two locations. His tools were kept in the shop and his miscellaneous (I use this with the strictest interpretation) parts were kept in Hoover-Ville. As a young boy these things interested me greatly. On occasion my brother and I would ask to play with the swords that our grandpa kept in the shed. He called them machetes but really they were ancient samurai swords that could cut through any known material. He took them away after seeing us test this theory against the house. The same grip came upon my arm and for the first time I looked into his blue eyes. They were hard and dull but flashed with strength. Without words he took away the swords and showed us a white dot on the back of his palm. "This is what happened the last time I played with those swords." he said while pointing to the odd shaped dot. I later understood, or was informed rather, that he had punctured his palm with the machete as a small child. "Toys are toys." He said. "But tools are tools and you had better learn the difference."

Bathing was a new ritual. At first I looked forward to hearing my grandmother run the bath water. The steam and smell always excited me. This sensation faded though as I realized that bathing was not a treat; it was a chore! God love my grandparents because they found a way to change that. Grandma Gooch collected toys of all kinds (not machetes), and sprinkled the tub with them to distract us while she washed our hair. Again, this grew old. The new thing to do was run our own bath water. My first time was typically exhilarating. "Now the one here on the right, right here you see, that is the cold water. That'n on the left is for hot water.” Grandma Gooch said. So I turned the left all the way up and the right all the way up and watched the faucet poor. "Now make sure you watch the water; don't let it over flow Randy." she said.

Grandpa Gooch came in from his chores to wash his hands and immediately slid the bathtub door to check on me. "What are you doing?" He yelled. "Look at all that water!" It did not appear to be a great amount of water. I thought it was just right. "Your getting it all over the floor!" He turned the faucet off and with his relentless grip and yanked me out of the tub; I was naked. He told me to "Drain that tub! Get towels from your Grandma! Clean the floor (make sure you get behind the commode)! And for goodness sake you pinhead don't ever use that much water again! That water cost me money. Do you know how much money I have?" I glued my eyes to my crisscrossed feet and meagerly shook my head. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his flaps. I watched him walk away with his pockets flared out like flags.

He wore his pants like that the rest of the night. I asked Grandma why. "He's trying to show you that his pockets are empty." I did not understand. "It's saying that he doesn't have any money, but that's a lie anyhow. We have money so don't you worry. He's just not used to it. Your grandpa used to do that all the time; it's because his dad did it too." I feigned understanding and walked to my room. I reached into my pockets and pulled them out like my Grandpa; the more I thought about it, and the less I thought about his anger fit, I believed that it actually looked kind of cool: walking around with my pocket flaps showing.

After I moved back in with my mom I tried to remind myself the difference between tools and toys. I always finished all of my meals; I was hungry enough anyway. And when I bathed I used a practical level of water. Occasionally I could be caught with my pockets flaps showing but when I got my first wallet that practice was forgotten. To this day I cringe when I see people throw away food and if I were to ever use more than necessary for a task a voice in my head yells "Never waste! Ever!"

Today, I’m suspended in a form of purgatory. My generation is thriving from the economic boom. Their car selection, frequent restaurant visits, and endless flow of cash was at first foreign to me. My social circle consists of entrepreneur’s children; I have only dated daughters of Vice Presidents or Co-Owners. To exercise a social life I must attend the weekly meals at sit-in restaurants during any night of the week. And while I am forced to order frugally, thinking of my Grandfather, my peers give little thought to the price of their selection. When we leave to watch movies at someone's house (on their four foot flat screen in the 6th upstairs room decorated with leather furniture) I see my friends unlock brand new vehicle blasé, blasé, blasé. With humbleness, or lack of pride, I often am forced to crawl into a paint chipped 92’ Pontiac. I am not able to communicate wholly with my peers; not on the exact same level so to speak. I can merge into this lifestyle and become accustomed to carelessness, cars, and corporate spending. But I grew up with a different generation during a different time; I grew up during the depression: 1997-2000.

Interests: Percussion, writing, running, learning.

Published writer: No

Freelance: No