ON A DRUNK
They said he cried. It was hard to believe, but I chalked it up to him being on a drunk. He’d been living with his youngest daughter and her husband. I was glad he wasn’t living with us.
My aunt didn’t have any kids, which made her home suit my grandpa a whole lot better. Not to mention, alcohol wasn’t allowed in our, my mom and dad’s, house. I didn’t know it at the time, but that ruled our grandpa staying with us, after my grandma passed, out of the question.
Grandpa bounced around a bit. He stayed with a select few of his nine kids, on and off, daughters only. His drinkin’ and lifestyle would eventually wear on his daughters patience, even the drinkin’ one.
Retirement didn’t suit grandpa. So, eventually, he drifted back to the place he’d cussed and cursed all his life. Back to the place he’d blamed all of his ills on; the cotton field.
Sometime toward the end of his golden years he did his last stint with his youngest daughter; my aunt Sharon. The family figured that if anyone could handle Troy, it would be Sharon. She was tough as nails and twice as sharp. Sharon was the type of woman who could make a seasoned sailor blush. Her scowl was scarier than a rattlesnake.
my brother, grandpa holding my brother’s oldest, and my dad… 4 generations.
Troy didn’t like people and tolerated family. His Cherokee brown eyes burned at the edges in golden flames when he was on a cuss laced rant about the numerous subjects that didn’t square with his world. That’s where Sharon learned it… I thought.
Troy wasn’t a gentle man. he was hard to the core. He didn’t show emotion often and when he did it was after he’d been drinkin’. That’s how we knew he loved music. Music and booze. That’s what he loved for sure.
I didn’t mind hearing Troy blow a hurricane through his harmonica as he stomped the earth in time. But I never knew my dad’s dad was a writer until I found out about the night he cried.
My hot-headed aunt, who was a chip off the ole block, was fed up with her dad’s drinkin’ and coming home late. She threw Troy’s belongings, that fit into an old suitcase and a couple of garbage bags, out into the front yard.
It was a rare Southwest desert night with the type of winds that made tumbleweeds famous and a rain that rivaled Noah’s. The wind and rain stole and or destroyed Troy’s writings. He slumped in my aunt’s front yard and cried. Someone told me some of his songs were ones he’d written for my grandma.
That was one of those rare moments to glimpse the soft side of a hard man.
Funny how people choose to see in themselves what they want…
Even when I was violent, impatient, angry and mad dog mean, I never considered my grandpa’s genes. They skipped a generation, you can ask my brothers and sister. I guess that’s one of the reasons we can be blinded to our own shortcomings. That, and not seeking wisdom from God.
A loved one destroyed a piece of Troy, even if he was on a drunk, maybe the best part of him. I get why he cried… now.
Sunday, August 6, 2017 @ 6:35 pm
I know why he cried. There may have been other reasons too – – An uncle by marriage on my husband’s side turned to drink after his wife was murdered. He drank and cried for many years, until finally after escaping death, he quit just like that and went to live with his daughter. He was happy there tending a small garden and helping keep house while she worked at her church. Drink can be a demon, and it is best left alone. We too can be hard as nails at times, and soft as cotton other days. Thanks Floyd for another awesome post.
Sunday, August 6, 2017 @ 6:44 pm
Oh Floyd. I’m so sorry. You had me in tears over your grandpa, and all his losses. People drink for various reasons, but usually to escape something, and they never know at the outset that they will become hooked. Ask me: As an alcoholic, I know. I had an uncle who sounded like your grandpa. Actually he was gentle till he drank, and then you wouldn’t know him. He drank to escape the horrors of WWII and, at just seventeen, seeing things he never should have and watching his friends blown to bits before his eyes. He was a gentle, sweet man w/ an artistic side (wonderful painter). But once he picked up the bottle, he put down his brush. He died too young from complications of alcoholism. there is always a story at the bottom of a glass, and I’m glad you found your grandfather’s. I weep over his lost music. I’m so sorry.
Love
Lynn
Sunday, August 6, 2017 @ 7:29 pm
Somehow it doesn’t matter how we try to cover our losses…when loss happens it hurts deep.
Sunday, August 6, 2017 @ 8:47 pm
Oh, that is SO sad! I can only imagine how much that tore at the heart of your grandpa to see his soul on paper being destroyed. I am sure you would love to have read those pieces of his heart, especially since you are such a proficient writer yourself. You definitely have such a gift…your writing draws me right in. Thank you for sharing this, brother. God bless you and your family.
Monday, August 7, 2017 @ 4:28 am
To those of us who write, the words that flow, stutter, and leak from our pens often have been accompanied by tears, laughter, and sweat–they are the result of toil that can be as hard as working a cotton field. It doesn’t surprise me at all that your grandpa cried.
Monday, August 7, 2017 @ 5:12 am
I, fortunately, was spared this type of life. I never knew my dad’s dad. My mom’s dad was the closest person I knew to a saint. he loved Jesus. Grandma. Mom and me. In that order. He learned early in life there were some things just not worth continuing. I’m glad I got to see the God-side of him. As for that picture: from what I have seen of you, you and your brother could almost be twins.
Monday, August 7, 2017 @ 9:30 am
Your grandpa may have been a cusser and a drinker, but he was a writer, too. That he cried at the loss of those writings speaks volumes. Those words were what he was really made of, and what mattered the most to him.
Blessings, Floyd!
Monday, August 7, 2017 @ 6:14 pm
Good story, Floyd. Don’t you think a battle blazes in all of our souls? I wish patterns from my mother would have skipped a generation but I’ll be darned, they showed up in me. All that brokenness turned out to be the catalyst for my need for a Savior. And isn’t it strange that when I write about the pain of it, readers resonate. Shows me we want victory. But there’s only one way to it.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017 @ 9:55 am
Wow. We don’t always know what’s deep-down important to a person. But tears often reveal the truth. Thanks for sharing this story about your grandfather, Floyd. Everyone has a soft spot, including the crustiest old men, and I’m glad you have this story about his.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017 @ 5:48 pm
I think Lisa is right, there is a soft spot in all of us but life has a way of building a hard shell around it. I know, it took the love of Christ to penetrate my shell. One has to wonder what your grandpa lived through to make him so hard and turn to drinking. Good story with lots of truth poking out of it.
Friday, August 11, 2017 @ 11:04 am
Hi Floyd,
Thanks for this honest glimpse into your family and your grandpa’s lives. Wow, poor guy when his songs and writings were soaked and ruined by the rain. I get that. My journals were always in a backpack by the door when we were loving in war-torn West Africa during the civil war there, ready to grab if we had to run.
How are you? 🙂
Jennifer Dougan
http://www.jenniferdougan.com
Friday, August 11, 2017 @ 12:05 pm
Oh, Floyd, I was crying through this one. Your grandpa reminds me of my own father, in many ways, and an uncle of mine who actually died in jail for some crime or other. He wore everyone in the family down to where no one would take him in any longer, so he would commit non-violent crimes so he could stay in jail and have a place to eat and sleep. He was even able to get his alcohol in there, somehow. He always said sleeping in jail beat sleeping on the street.
Monday, August 14, 2017 @ 9:58 am
Sounds a lot like my grandfather, the alcoholism included. It’s ironic how we think about people differently as the years pass by. We see were they passed things on through the genes that we never expected. Hopefully we learn from their mistakes and view their mistakes with more grace as we age.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017 @ 11:03 am
A sad but important family story, Floyd. Thank you for sharing.
Monday, August 28, 2017 @ 10:15 am
your post reminded me of the quote about walking a mile in another mans shoes.
How quick we are to judge others, how apt we are to gloss over our own shortcomings. Planks in our eyes.
Our words have the power to heal or wound.
James 1:19 has been a prayer of mine. That I would be quick to listen but less quick to judge, get angry/self righteous and slow to speak.