Today was not my day, though I remember African Americans marching down the lonely highway between Seagraves and Seminole when I was young.They weren’t the lowliest of the low, though they were pretty far down there. The worst off were the Mexicans. My grandfather and uncle bypassed the blacks (except for the moonshine buying in a dry county) for the Mexicans who couldn’t even claim something like a wage. I remember the woman who taught me how to hoe a row of cotton. I eventually got a car for my childhood work. I doubt that she earned enough to live by. I remember my cousins showing me where their “wetback” lived. I will never forget it.
When I was younger, my father’s family was considered city folk and therefore kind of weak and sickly by my mom’s family. It was far from the truth; my grandfather worked hard to get his family in town (my mom’s family never lived in a town or any kind of incorporated area). He apprenticed my dad to a job that lasted him a life time and he was so valuable to his employer that that employer had taken out a life insurance policy on him that paid the company AND he paid for my dad’s funeral.
My tribute to my dad this year is the moonplants. He’s the one that turned me on to them, and having neglected planting them for years (why?), the ones I have now are going crazy. Just like dad would have loved. I’ll take a picture or two of them tomorrow, for him.
I loved my dad more than he loved me. I’ve always known it. I still think that he would have come around to me, had he lived long enough.