Tom Wade

MEMORIES OF A QUIET PAST

I    

It was a July afternoon and hot. I heard a deep voice singing in the distance, coming from a field adjacent to our yard. Though it was faint to my ears, it had to have been resounding at the source, as I could make it out over the popping clamor of an old John Deere tractor. My dad was singing a slow ballad I didn’t recognize. I have overheard him intoning to himself before, but this was my first recollection of thinking this habit was idiosyncratic. I watched him as he drove a tractor the same shade of faded green as the grass and weeds he was cutting. Although his crooning was rhythmic and steady, it bothered me. He was singing for no one other than himself, disclosing contentment I seldom witnessed.   

The singing was a variant of Dad’s self-talk. A farmer, he kept his own company as he worked alone. I can picture him wearing heavy work jeans and a blue denim shirt like those favored by young revolutionary types in the nineteen sixties and early seventies. He had a small herd of dairy cows, and his main chore was to milk them twice a day. Twenty to twenty-five times, he would place a milking machine by the side of a cow as she ate grain from a trough, a stanchion around her neck to keep her still. He put on the suction cups, his large, strong-looking hands that, like his face, were ruddy from exposure to the sun and wind. As he went about this and his other routines, he spoke to himself in hurried, subdued utterances. 

Since his soliloquies never seemed to cease, they became background noise that I grew accustomed to, as people living near airports or busy roads become acclimated to the din. Though there were moments I could make out what he was saying, I didn’t eavesdrop. He never talked to us about himself, and I saw his reticence as a desire for privacy, which I wanted to honor. And I had another reason: I feared getting too close, afraid he’d reveal flashes of the insecurity and dread that erupted on occasion. He kept to himself, and I didn’t want to know why.      

II  

Despite his constant chatter when by himself, Dad was quiet around others. He never initiated a conversation unless he had to, such as in a store asking for assistance. And when he was talking to someone, he relied on stock phrases, “It looks like we’ll get rain.” One typical exchange I had with him was a five-minute call he made to tell me my mother had pneumonia. He said something like, “Mom’s in the hospital,” not volunteering anything else, and then answered my questions about how long she’ll be there and the severity of the illness. He had nothing else to say, didn’t ask about my family or remark on the weather. This call mirrored the other interactions we had had over the previous forty years. His shyness was contagious. Unable to come up with something else to say, I was relieved to hang up.      

My dad was sensitive about his bashfulness. Once, he bought my sister a few school items at a dime store when she was with him. He got her a box of crayons, but it was the wrong type. She didn’t say anything then but later complained to our mother. Mom asked why she didn’t tell Dad, and she said, “He doesn’t talk to us.” I overheard my mother tell him what my sister said, and her tone seemed a mild rebuke for his being remote. He denied my sister’s claim, though we all knew it was true. His indignant voice trailed off as he moved to the nearby couch, speaking in a hurt whisper, loud enough for us to hear but not grasp. I glanced at him staring at the newspaper with slumped shoulders, eyelids half-closed, and wrinkled brow, mumbling. He appeared to be more ashamed than angry.     

Sometimes, his behavior reflected his convulsive self-talk. Early one morning, in a back room of the milk barn, a cow pushed the top off a wooden box containing oats and began eating. Dad chased her out. A few minutes later, I went to the same bin and scooped a quart of grain for my horse. Dad didn’t know I had entered the barn, and when he heard me rooting around in the box, he thought the cow had returned. Furious, he came hollering and swearing. I froze, not knowing what to do. He barreled into the room, coming to a sudden stop when he saw me there cringing. Perplexed, I realized, after a second, his mistake. He apologized, distressed by his behavior. He acted as if he had harmed me. While startled, I wasn’t scared. I understood how the clamor I was making confused and agitated him, but I couldn’t understand his remorse, for it was a simple mistake. As he said he was sorry, the anguish and helplessness in his face disquieted me.  

When in the house, an hour later, he expressed his regret again, saying he thought the unruly cow had come back. His need to apologize once more rattled me, and I weakly said, “It’s OK.” I turned my attention to getting together my schoolbooks since I had to catch the bus. As I did, I tried to ignore his passionate and persistent replay of the scene under his breath. I have no other memories of receiving an apology from him, and he gave it twice.  

III

I suppose my dad’s behavior could be ascribed to his upbringing, although the signs are mixed. We didn’t see his parents often—some holidays and Sunday afternoon social calls once or twice a month, except for the week my sister and I spent with them when our mother went to the hospital for our brother’s birth. They were both stern disciplinarians, but what stays in my mind is our grandfather didn’t hesitate to spank us if we were slow to obey him. Perhaps he lost his patience because he was too old for a toddler and a preschooler, or it could have been that was his disposition. Regardless, I didn’t anticipate my grandpa’s short temper.  

Both of our grandparents were loquacious, though my grandmother was the more talkative. During our Sunday afternoon visits, sitting in the living room or on the front lawn in warm weather, she chattered nonstop, gossiping about the farmers and townsfolks they knew. After a neighbor of theirs died from a heart attack, I went with one of my uncles to visit the man’s mother to give our condolences. My grandfather was there. He and five or six other farmers clustered around the kitchen table, ill-at-ease, not knowing what to say; after a momentary, embarrassed hush, Grandpa spoke up, consoling the grieving woman by noting her son’s thoughtfulness. Someone murmured in agreement. A minute later, during a lull, Grandpa gave another remembrance. I was struck by how he thrived around people.   

IV

My dad got out of farming when I was sixteen, leaving me in need of a summer job. Not wanting employment in a gas station or grocery store, I asked his brother Jiggs, who still made a living off the land, if I could go to work for him, hauling hay. The first summer, I labored for the money. I came back the next two summers for the fellowship.   

Jiggs was outgoing, like his parents, not hesitating to start a conversation with anyone he encountered, whether friend or stranger. Unexpectedly, his gregarious nature was a balm to my anxious and uncertain emotional state. What we talked about wasn’t as important as the spoken exchange. He was the first adult who didn’t patronize me or dismiss my opinions (on most subjects). Much of the talk was about farm affairs—discussing if clover cut yesterday will be ready to bale today—but we sometimes veered off into current events.    

He supported the segregationist George Wallace, who was running for president, and he held that Blacks were inferior, not to be trusted. Although he acknowledged, “They’ve gone too far in the South,” it didn’t stop him from idolizing Wallace. I argued with him, making clear that he and Wallace were wrong, yet, while I was sincere, my comprehension of civil rights was abstract and limited. We each knew we wouldn’t reach a middle ground.  

Jiggs and his wife, Louetta, could be big-hearted, traits that, for me, were most evident at the end of a workday. My family seldom had company. I remember evenings at my aunt and uncle’s place, in which relatives and friends crowded their kitchen, dropping by to borrow a tool or socialize, and stayed for supper. In those gatherings of seven or eight, my shyness dissolved as I took part in the small talk and banter. Pleased with my newfound extroversion, I felt accepted.   

V 

Ten years after Dad’s death and some two decades after Jiggs died, I made a trip to see Louetta and her two children in Missouri. Mid-afternoon, on a warm, sunny June day, after a visit with my aunt, I went to one cousin’s house out in the country; it was on a gravel road eight miles from the nearest town. Judy was in her late sixties and her husband, John, was a year shy of eighty. As soon as I drove up, Judy had me go to their daughter’s place down the road a couple of hundred yards. Their daughter, son-in-law, and grandson were there. The son-in-law, who I learned had terminal prostate cancer, busied himself outside, not participating in the confab and ignoring me. Yet, their daughter and grandson gave me a friendly welcome.    

We assembled in a large shed with metal siding that housed a tractor, pickup truck, various pieces of gardening equipment, and a workbench. The fifteen-foot-high roof covered a concrete floor about twenty by thirty feet, providing us an unconventional setting for catching up. But though the building was not uncomfortable, it had an unpleasant aura.     

Confederate battle flags lined one wall. Four of them hung from the wooden frame, appearing enormous. I ignored them, keeping my gaze on my hosts. I live in Georgia, where the “stars and bars” remain commonplace—incorporated into the state flag up to twenty years ago and still displayed on bumper stickers and custom license plates. But I don’t recall seeing such a blatant symbol of racism in Missouri (albeit intolerance has a formidable presence in the state). While I refused to look at the odious pennants, they hovered in the corner of my eye, evoking bright-colored, poisonous vines. I’ve convinced myself they were the work of my cousin’s son-in-law (who avoided me). Although they didn’t disavow them, I want to conclude the others present saw the flags as an outlet for the son-in-law’s frustration or a sign of his independence. These emblems left an indelible imprint in my mind, but I’ve never mentioned them to anyone.     

For some reason, Judy started telling her grandson, Zack, about my dad. Not calling him “Bub,” a moniker used by Dad’s family and childhood acquaintances, but that he and my mom thought demeaning, Judy told Zack about “Uncle Wilford,” using his given name. I remember few specifics because she reminisced about Dad’s personality instead of a narrative of past events, character rather than a story. She made a point about his most distinctive attribute: He hardly talked. In her account, this quality was integral to his independence. After a few minutes, John added several memories, reflecting, as Judy did, on Dad’s manner rather than relating anecdotes. He described a laconic spirit who didn’t hesitate to forego time and respite to complete a disagreeable job. Uncle Wilford was the kind of person, he said, who would work in the hayfields until everyone finished at 6:00 and then milk twenty-two cows, another two-hour chore, by himself. While Judy and John exaggerated a couple of points, everything they said was complimentary. To my surprise, when they finished, my face became warm, and my breathing became lighter as I relished a moment of pride.     

Yet their tribute was in a setting evincing the belief that skin color determined a person’s value, which permeated my dad’s upbringing, and that Judy and John accepted. I feel that while extolling his worthy features, they took for granted he was like them: someone who, if not embracing it, wouldn’t be uneasy standing there in a makeshift shrine to hatred. I, on the contrary, thought of him as a person who had shed the racism of his youth. While he didn’t respond, he seemed to agree with my mother’s disapproving opinion of segregated restrooms and white flight. But though he’s my father, I don’t know for sure.    

VI 

Genetics and the environment are powerful forces, and thus, to an extent, I’m like my dad. However, there are facets of his personality I try to avoid. Whereas I tend to say little, I become discomforted if I perceive that in a given situation, I’m too reserved, causing people to view me as aloof or, worse, shy. When this occurs, I strive to join in the conversation by posing a question or stating a bland cliche. A more pronounced divergence is how I interacted with my daughters growing up. From the days they were toddlers, I made a point of talking to them and paying attention to their remarks and questions. I spent time with them playing catch and taking them swimming on summer Saturdays. Although I wasn’t a model parent, our communications were usually relaxed and not self-conscious.    

When in his presence, I felt my dad’s quietness, and because it was a mystery, it intimidated me, as did the anger that simmered below the surface in his self-talk and occasionally exploded. I remember when he told me to cut a board in two, instructing me to take long strokes with the handsaw. He became impatient at my clumsy attempts, and after a few exasperated words (“not that way, long strokes”), took the board from me. Incompetent and worthless and small, I stood there without reacting. Still, I remember when he fed motherless kittens that he found in an outlying barn until they could fend for themselves. And I remember when at a county fair, he watched a drunken farmer order his teenage son (who had prize-winning sheep), “Don’t bring those goddamned sheep home. Sell them. I don’t care where. Get rid of them sons-of-bitches.” Disturbed by the tirade, I glanced at the son’s stony face as he absorbed the abuse and then at my dad, whose countenance matched that of the boy. In Dad’s unyielding stare, I knew he, too, was disturbed. But I couldn’t tell if he saw himself in the son or the father. I departed to the carnival midway.   

__________

TOM WADE IS A RETIRED STATE GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE. HE LIVES IN THE ATLANTA AREA AND VOLUNTEERS WITH THE AMERICAN CIVIL LIBERTIES UNION. HIS ESSAYS HAVE APPEARED IN CANYON VOICES, DR. T. J. ECKLEBURG REVIEW, LUNCH TICKET, INLANDIA, HARMONY MAGAZINE, RIVANNA REVIEW, THE DEAD MULE SCHOOL OF SOUTHERN LITERATURE, 805 LIT+ART, AND OTHER PUBLICATIONS.