Chicken, My Chicken

Chicken, My ChickenIt’d been a good family Easter dinner as far as family gatherings go. I love family, my family. All the people, blood or not, who I’ve chosen or permitted to be a part of my life. Of course, when a gathering is not at one’s own home, there’s little choice in who attends and only, really, a choice in whether or not to be a part of the gathering.No doubt most people can relate. If you can’t, well... good for you.Poor Granny. She’d consumed one adult beverage too many and was now sitting in the parlor quietly recovering her dignity. The signs were all there. We knew it was happening. But, like any train wreck already in motion, there was no stopping it. Rather, it simply had to be observed or turned away from with varying degrees of horror and or mirth depending on the observer’s age, perspective, and understanding.The too loud laughter, excessive, slurred, increasingly confused speech, and repeated failure to recognize when others were trying to talk were included among the dead giveaways. Attempts by one of the gentlemen present to divert Granny from beer to coffee was expected as was her reaction – to completely brush those attempts off and continue on in typical, ‘Damn the torpedo, full speed ahead,’ fashion.When the tears arrived, they did so suddenly. The expression of her grief was acute. For the little one’s it was confusing. The adults who’d seen it all before were embarrassed or frustrated. Those new to our family gatherings weren’t sure just exactly how to react.There was some internal chemistry inn Granny that unfailingly ignited anytime she drank a little too much. Some chemical reaction that, combined with difficult life experiences and past traumas, inevitably coaxed from her a story about her late father. When her thoughts and conversation turned to him, the tears were inevitable. Just one sip too many, the crisis would achieved and then, with time and coffee, it would all be over.Granny was led to a comfortable place to sit and recover from her ordeal. Our post dinner conversation similarly attempted to recover. Neither recovery was immediate.Though it may seem that I am making fun at Granny’s expense, I am not. Her youth was difficult. She was the daughter of a woman who, might be most charitably described as a, ‘character’ or a ‘pistol’ Unfortunately, while many of the stories about Granny’s mother may be entertaining, she wasn’t necessarily a noble character. When I think of my Great Grandmother there is always an association with the late and notorious outlaw, Belle Starr. Generations of our family, Granny included, have suffered as a consequence of her poor decisions and questionable or often frankly ugly actions.Granny loved her father. She always spoke of him kindly and her love for him could be heard in her words and voice. When she drank hooch, particularly when she’d consumed a little too much, she couldn’t help but think of him. Those thoughts, affected by alcohol, always brought on tears. Unfortunately she was prone drinking more than was altogether wise, particularly at parties and family gatherings.Something in that combination of chemistry, life experience, personal trauma, and hooch caused a predictable and anticlimactic outcome to many a family dinner. One that happened so often as to be noteworthy but also one that inspires in me a wish that things had gone differently for Granny in her youth.Are there difficult memories that are also sometimes humorous? You bet! I’m not ashamed of either the laughter or the tears. The fact is, a sort of curse has worked its way through the generations. Sadly, as it made its way, it was too often manifest in my Granny, who I truly loved and still love. It is ugly. It was ugly to her and sadly, through her.But, more of that another time.I watched Granny dab tears from her eyes in the other room. Uncle Carl brought her a cup of coffee, piping hot no doubt. I saw her pat her benefactor’s hand, give it a squeeze, and bring the cup to her lips and thought, “She’ll be okay.”“Hank,” Momma said, “I have something outside for the girls.”“You do, what is it?”“It’s a surprise.” Then, “Girls, y’all come with Grandma and your Daddy. I have a surprise for you outside.”My daughters, very young, were all pleased excitement. The four of us exited the house to go outside to see Grandma’s surprise. Having had some experience with a string of those surprises over the years, I was torn between mild excitement and foreboding. With Momma, things could go either way… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit hankgriffin.substack.com/subscribe