from my origonal diary entitled Ben Dover

My father was a boy

It all began in January of 1942, with my father. He was born in Kentucky on a rat hole farm, in the county of Floyd, in a town named Prestonsburg.
My father was the youngest of 13 children and had many advantages over his other brothers and sisters, he was the cute one. Yes my father was the darling of the brood, and got away with many things that the others of his clan never did.
One thing that was never tolerated by my grand mother was cursing. She was a devout Christian, and there was no way she could tolerate any form of blaspheme, for any reason.
Much like my father I loved my grand mother without question. She was my mother, and my spiritual center. She taught me the difference between what was right in the world, and right in my heart, and bless her she tried to show me how to know the difference. (But as the book goes on, you’ll see that I’m not a very good student.)
One day we traveled north from our home in Tinytown Indiana, to my grandmother’s home in Michigan. She was a fabulous little hobbit, and one of the most fiery Indians I had come to know. Even at her age, she was still quick as a whip if one of her few rules were infringed upon.
The drive was only three hours, but it was hot and my brothers, and sisters wanted to make the drive memorable so we did all we could to annoy my father. And with seven children in a station wagon, it’s easier than you would think.
When we reached my grandmothers home, my parents were a strung out mess, and just wanted to have us dig our own graves so the killings could begin early. Luckily for us we were at gran’ma’s house, and she would protect us. She was our safe zone for two days! Woo Hoo! The party could begin!
We played and laughed and frolicked in the land that surrounded her home. We had ice cream any time we wanted, and the chocolate lake filled with candy fish was the envy of the neighbor hood. (o.k., but I was a kid!)
In the final hours of our stay rain had moved in, and we were stuck in doors. All of gran’ma’s stories were told, and the cartoons were over, and being kids cooped up in doors, was as it always is. Soon squabbles broke out, and my father was still in his snit from the drive up, and soon the nit picking became more than he could bare.

“If you don’t set down and shut the f*** up, I’m going to stick a **** up every one of you god d*** good for nothing little******in**** and***then ****I’m gonna*****and**** **** **** **** break it off!”
My grandmother changed that day. She laid her cane on the floor and grew seven foot taller. Her lovingly cared for grey bun burst into flame. Her tiny little grandmother eyes popped out of her head and this eerie blue light began to burn in her sockets. She floated over to her kitchen and grabbed a frying pan, one of those ten pound cast iron things, and then levitated back to the living room. Where she hovered in front of her terror struck family.
My father’s lower lip quivered, and he began to shake. He had seen this woman before, and feared her.
“How many times?” Her voice rattled like thunder, “Do I have to tell you never to cuss in my house?!” She raised the frying pan over her head, and lightening flashed!
My father bolted for the door and cleared it just as the frying pan flew past his head. She sort of teleported to the door and stood in it preaching gods word, and threatening my fathers life in languages that have been dead for centuries.
She then, turned her back and the door slammed shut behind her, locking itself, and my father in the rain.
We were stunned, stupefied, horror struck. Who was this person and what did she do to gran’ma?
As she crossed the room to her chair, the change reversed, and she was my gran’ma once again, rocking in her chair, and smiling at us with love that knew no bounds.
My father tried the door, but found it locked. He tried twice to get in, when that voice boomed once again.
“THE ONLY WAY YOUR GETTING IN HERE IS TO GET ON YOUR KNEE’S AND BEG GOD TO FORGIVE YOU!”
In a cold Michigan rain, in the middle of no where I sat at a window and watched my father fall to his knees and begin to prey. He knew that he was not coming in until she was ready to let him in, and somehow I understood the man better. There was a time when he was me, and he had to bare the burden of raising this little, “thing” into a man.
I walked to the door and opened it, and in the rain I went to my father and told him I was sorry. I don’t know why I was sorry, but I was, and knelt beside him.
He taught me the words, and I began to pray with him, all the time, my grandmother watching.
She let him in finally, and we all had hot chocolate, from her lake, and ice cream.
When we left, she stood in her door and told each and every one of us good bye. It was like a receiving line, and each member of her family was getting her blessing.
I came up and she went through her routine:
“You be good, and listen to your folks. Say your prayers, and do good things, the father is watching.”
Then she bent over to my ear, “You are a very special boy.” She said and slipped something into my hand.
I got in the car and watched as dad said his good byes and noticed that he looked just like I did. He was magically transformed into this little kid, who seemed to fear leaving home, but she put her hand on his cheek and sent him on his way.
I looked down at the thing my grandmother had put in my hand, and saw it to be a book. It was very old, and the pages were brown, some stuck together.
There was writing on the inside of the cover.
“To my special little boy, love mom.” and the date was 1/23/1942.
As you know this was a bible, and it had been given to my father on the day of his birth. I watched as the car pulled out of the drive and we rolled away. She stood there waving until I couldn’t see her anymore, and I felt a little hole open in my heart.
It’s a simple moral really. Twelve years later my grandmother has a stroke and died. I never saw her after that visit, because I had so many other things to do. I had to grow up, and get in trouble, discover girls and cars, get married, and divorced. She was like so many of my childhood things. But I still have that little hole my heart, where my grandmother was.
Every once in a while I see that book, and it brings up the need to apologize. I don’t know why, but in my heart I feel a warm feeling of forgiveness, and I know that she’s still there, and I miss her so much…