In the 8th grade, at Yatesville, I had to take
Agriculture, and when you took Agriculture,
you joined the Future Farmers of America (FFA).
I remember those blue corduroy coats with
the yellow emblem. A boy went to a strip-tease show,
in
the retarded ones, who’d been held back a year,
beat up the preacher’s kids who had teased them,
at FFA initiation. I was told of fractured skulls
and broken teeth. I was not looking forward
to it. In fact, I had nightmares.
I dreaded it. I was rescued by
a nervous breakdown. Pop
was stressed by Dad’s absence,
and threw a king-hell shit-roarer.
Dad prayed about it and decided if God
had meant for him to be a minister he would not
have given him a step-father like Grandpa Cason.
He gave up on his dream, went home, and ran
the family business, until his death, from heart disease.
He was survived by Grandma and Grandpa Cason.
I took over doing Pop’s taxes for him.
He said to me, “You know, if your dad
had stuck with it, he be drawing a ministerial
pension now.” So much for gratitude.
You didn’t kill him, Pop. Life did.
Providing for his wife and family.
Educating his two daughters and
Leaving my mother provided for.
Bill and I could make it on our own,
like he did. He sold Bill a gas station.
My mother forgave the loan she made me
to publish my first book. And when she died,
I inherited enough money to quit my job
and live a year and write. Well, live six months
and write six books. Then take a job as
a handyman in a museum. Backstage at the circus.
Welcome to the midway. The fat lady, the geek, who bites
the heads off chickens. The secret blogger.
Not such a secret, as it turns out. Sacked and blacklisted.
Midgets. Freaks. Junior Leaguers. A girl, who fucked
farm boys. Hoped to get married.