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As I sit at my desk, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and slowly place myself in the past. My mood changes and I begin to type mechanically as each thought tries to find its way to the pages.
My first memory is of a dimly lit room. A television is playing but I hear no sound. I see myself standing in the distance. I am five years old.
As I stare out into the living room I see my father in a wheelchair. My mother must be somewhere near because I can smell the aroma of her fried chicken even now. This is a precious moment because I feel love all around me.
Other images of my past materialize in front of me. It’s hard to describe what I feel. Each scene plays for just a few seconds and is gone. Suddenly, I am someplace else.
No matter how hard I try to remember I am faced with blanks from my past. I am not sure if I should be glad that my mind chooses to keep these scenes hidden, or if I should be worried that the blanks indicate a more serious and deeper problem that I am not yet ready to address.
Reluctantly I move past this last image; my mind flashes forward and I find myself with my father again. We are in Fort Frederica, my hometown. Fort Frederica is a small place tucked away on the south side of St. Simon’s Island, part of the Golden Isles on the Georgia coast. It is the kind of place where everyone is either family or friend.
I see my father riding me on the back of his wheelchair. I am holding on tightly. I clinch my hands even tighter, hoping not to fall as the wheelchair labors down the long rocky dirt road.
The day is warm and glistening, limbs of moss-laden trees sway back and forth as if serenading to the melody of a lazy summer breeze. I am happy. My father is my hero.
I often try to imagine what my father was like before the accident. I’ve heard many stories of how handsome he was in his newly pressed military uniform. My aunts told me he was one of the island’s most sought-after bachelors. They said my father was so cool he ironed his money before putting it in his wallet. He was said to be a real ladies’ man; however it was my mom who captured his eye, and according to him, his eyes had never seen a more beautiful woman. My mom was five-foot-five with a pecan-brown complexion and a perfect smile. My mom said it was my father ’s strong slim physique that attracted her to him. She often told my brother and me the story of how they met. She bragged casually about how neatly-shaven and well- manicured he was; and how his hair always had to be cut just right. He was a proud man.
My fingers begin to slow down and the typing stops abruptly as I feel my mood begin to change. I close my eyes and try hard to hold on to these happier times, but they vanish. I continue to sit with my eyes closed in an attempt to recall something more, but there is only an ominous darkness.
Suddenly, and appearing out of nowhere, I see an image of my brother, Junior, run past me. At first glance, it looks as if he is playing, but he is not. I see a frantic and terrified look on his face. Something is terribly wrong. I turn around and gasp in horror. It’s my father. He’s been drinking again. He is chasing my brother; the wheels on his wheelchair are spinning as fast as they can go. The alcohol has clouded my father’s ability to reason. He is frantically trying to catch my brother. My father is convinced that if Junior will just stand still he can shoot a wooden match right out of his tiny hand.
As my father whirs past me I see the determined look on his face. He has a small gun in his lap and his hair is no longer neatly cut, but wooly and uneven. He has put on weight and is
sweating profusely as he tries to help the wheels of his chair go even faster.
My brother is exhausted from running and stops to catch his breath. Thinking he is out of my father ’s reach, he bends over gasping with his hands on his knees.
As if he has forgotten he is chasing his son, my father takes aim, pulls the gun’s trigger and strikes my brother in the forehead. Junior falls to the ground.
I rush to my only sibling and best friend, unsure of his fate. As I kneel down beside his motionless body, my heart begins to race, but is put at ease as my brother, with blood streaming down his face, tearfully gazes up at me. Thank God it was only a pellet gun, or my brother might not be here today.
Although my brother’s wound eventually healed, I don’t think he ever really got over what happen that day. That day, like so many days, would never be mentioned again by my brother, or me.
Although Junior was my best friend, we were different in so many ways. He was a momma’s boy, always helping with the cooking and cleaning, sticking close by my mother ’s side. I, on the other hand, was a loner. I always wanted to eat, but was never one to help with the cooking. I would do practically anything to get out of doing my chores. My brother always tried to tell me what to do, but I had a mind of my own. I was five-going-on- fifty, and he, only two years older than me, was no match. I knew how to get my way. I exhale and ease slowly back in my chair. I can almost hear the words of my mother and aunt as they discuss the horrible accident that caused my father to morph into someone I no longer knew.
It all started one night during a horrific storm, when my father was on leave from service. The storm was so bad, it knocked the lights out of our house and the surrounding neighborhood. The gusting, howling, winds and torrential rains were so fierce they forced the branches of the giant moss trees to bend and kiss
the ground. With every flash of lightning, black skies turned to day, while raindrops, as sharp as pebbles powered down on our neighborhood.
The storm, however, wasn’t enough to deter my father from going out and getting the lights back. My father, trained as an electrician in the military, climbed to the top of the utility pole located near the side of our house, hoping to repair the loose wire that would bring the lights back on.
As he neared the top of the pole, my father tried to steady himself by grabbing onto a nearby branch. He almost had it when another piercing, crackling sound ripped through the air.
My father reeled around as a bolt of lightning struck him. It hit him so hard he was knocked to the ground. He lay paralyzed from the waist down, pants on fire, and unable to move. My mother, hearing him scream rushed to his side. She did all she could to put out the flames, but it was too late. The damage had been done.
His legs were burned so badly they had to be removed. Weeks later, at the age of twenty-six, my father left the hospital a cripple—a condition far too much for him to bear.
As time passed my father became a different man. He slowly drifted to a place no one could penetrate. He started drinking heavily. The bottle became his best friend and constant companion.
As I sit reminiscing, another image appears. My mother is pulling my brother and me off the school bus, just a few blocks from our home on St. Simon’s. She had had enough. The drunken bouts and obnoxious behavior by my father was just too much for her to bear.
The drastic impact that day would have on my life and the life of my family would not unfold until years later. Fourteen years would pass before I’d see my father again.
My mother left so abruptly that day, she hadn’t thought out a real plan for our future. So we moved around a lot, going from
town to town, and to relative after relative. Eventually we ended up in a Belle Glade, Florida, which is the where my story begins…