When I lost my job in Winston-Salem as head porter in
a department store for stealing six rolls of toilet paper and
a gallon of liquid floor wax, we moved back to Florida.
Granny Brown took us in until I found a technical writing job
in Fort Walton Beach. Wayne was living in a double-wide in Callaway
selling real estate. It was just me and Brenda and Baby Owen.
I wasn't eligible for unemployment because I had resigned (or been
allowed to quit) and we weren't eligible for welfare because we didn't
maintain a separate residence. Granny fed us out of her social security
and trash fish David brought by. He was shrimping with Cousin Flynn.
David was Jug Brown, the country songwriter. David Davis
was Granny's brother. He came down to see her.
He wasn't senile yet. After he no longer knew
who he was, he would get away from his wife
and daughter and walk down to Georgia's house.
I would walk him home. He didn't know who I was.
He knew Balder had been a Marine. He didn't know Owen.
He didn't know Owen fished with Uncle Ed on the Friendship.
He might have know who Captain Ed was. He might have known
his brother Norman. It came and went. At the end, he didn't know
anyone except his wife and daughter and they were his jailers.
Or caregivers, I suppose.