GLENDALE TIME

Whenever Hank, Patsy, George, Tammy, or especially, Johnny sing red dirt roads take me back to the tap root of me, Glendale, Arkansas. Glendale, where my father, Holland Harrison Hankins, began; where my mother, Mattie Jean McDaniel was born; where my earliest memories were formed. The past rises from the dirt to engulf me, pulling me back to Glendale time.

Everyone in my family has passed. I may be the last of Holland’s sons, but in Glendale time the distinction between life and death disappears. The bodies of everyone who knew the first me are buried in the cemetery at Rowell Missionary Baptist Church, but when I wander among the graves I can still hear them, touch them, and see their smiles.

What am I looking for as I float back to an imaginary childhood? Am I like myriad other snow haired souls who refuse to let go of the past? For me, the past is more welcoming than today, or what I expect to happen tomorrow. Time travel is less stressful and more comforting than cable news.

Somebody once told me: the past is just history. Somebody is an idiot. Faulkner got it right, “The past is never dead. It's not even past.”

In Glendale time, Granddaddy tries to teach me to milk, but the cow kicks over the bucket because my hands are too cold. Grandma teaches me to churn butter. I churn the paddle, rising and falling into the milk, a rhythm going back hundreds of years. Finally, Grandma stops me. She takes off the lid off the churning crock, reaches in and gathers up the ball of butter. She pushes it into the wooden mold to form a cake of butter that will transform buttermilk biscuits and sorghum syrup into a taste of heaven.

In Glendale time, Grandma catches a five-pound bass in the farm pond. She has it mounted and hung in the dining room. She tells the same story about her bass at every family gathering.

“I caught him with nothin' but a worm, a cork, and an old cane pole. And it's bigger than anything Tommy ever caught. Him with all his fancy lures and what not.”

Sometimes Grandma talks about more than her fish – tales of ancestors who went to California and brought back a wash pot full of gold or who started a university in Texas. Her stories continue for hours until Granddaddy has heard enough.

“Hush, Amy. Just hush.”

She does.

Most of the time.

In Glendale time, old Red the rooster gets himself killed. At his fatal hour, old Red jumps on my neck and spurs me. I scream and Granddaddy runs down the porch steps, grabs Red, and wrings his neck. Grandma serves Red with dumplings. They are delicious.

In Glendale time, I have many cousins with great Arkansan names like Bo, Lulu, Robert Lee, Willard, and Jay. Every summer we invade the apple orchard. We climb the Granny Smith trees to feast on crunchy, green apples so tart they make our teeth hurt. We eat so many that we fall to the ground and lie moaning so loud Grandma hears us. She stands with her hands on her hip. She yells at us.

“Dammit. You kids ain’t got a lick of sense. Ya’ll do this every year. Fools everyone of y’all.”

Her eyes are steely but her mouth twists to hide her laughter. She gives us tea laced with paregoric. We sleep through supper, but at daylight we sneak outside and tackle the orchard once more.

Most of Glendale time is happy, but it also contains darkness filled with shame so deep that none of us dare go near.

In Glendale time there is the darkness of Granddaddy stumbling home late at night.

Grandma is waiting.

“Damn you, Tommy Harrison Hankins. Ain't I told you what would happen if you come home drunk again?”

Lightning quick, Granddaddy grabs her hair, pulls her down the hall to their room, and slams the door. Grandma screams. The whole house hears the slap that quiets her, but no one crosses Tommy when he drinks. No one.

Glendale time’s darkness even comes to our house in Texas. The night Uncle Grady dies, Mamma answers the hallway phone. She falls to the floor crying and screaming as if she is dying. Maysel, her sister, has called to tell her that her brother Grady has died. Mamma lost her Daddy when she was to young to remember him. Grady was the only Daddy she ever knew.

“Lordy, lord no! Grady can’t be gone! It can’t be true! It can’t be true!”

Daddy wakes. He’s trying to get a few hours of sleep before he rises at dawn and goes to work. He bursts out their bedroom door stands over Mamma shouting.

“Hush Jean! Just hush!”

Mamma cries even louder as he drags her to the living room. He raises his arm to slap her, but stops when he sees me watching.

“Get back to bed. This is between me and your Mamma. It ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

I want to help Mamma, but his eyes say, “Leave now or you get the belt.”

Back in bed I hear slaps and more screams. I sneak out to see Daddy hitting Mamma. Hard.

Mamma sees me and through her tears she pleads, “Get the phone honey, call your Aunt Maysel! Have her come get me. Tell her your Daddy's killing your Mamma!”

I grab the hall phone and dial Aunt Maysel’s number. Daddy storms over and rips the phone from the wall. He shakes it in Mamma's direction.

“Won't nobody be callin' nobody tonight!”

Mamma’s cries rip into me. I must help.

“Don’t worry Mamma, I’ll run next door Mrs. Rayburns house.”

Daddy turns to me with a face of rage. He raises his fist. Everything flashes white and I fall to the floor.

When I wake, I’m in bed with a bandage on my head. The house is quiet. I dress and tiptoe out the door. It’s football season and we’re doing two-a-days, once at dawn and once after school. I welcome the hitting and tackling.

Sometimes the darkness in Glendale time spreads outside our family. It hurts my best friend, Ignace Poisson. Ignace lives next door and is my best friend in kindergarten and grade school. His family is Cajun, but our friendship is deeper than skin color or accent. Ignace proudly shares the music and food of the Cajuns’ wild parties. We call each other brother and swear to protect each other forever.

Things change when we go to junior high. Many of my new friends don't like Cajuns and call them “coon asses.” My new friends push me to call Ignace that name. When I do, Ignace stares at me, crippled by my new-found hate. The shame I felt then, and still feel, will never end, but it is nothing compared to the horror I caused a wonderful little boy.

Does Glendale time’s darkness erase its joy? No. Does Glendale time’s joy justify its darkness? No.

The darkness and joy coexist at some quantum level in my soul. I am like Schrodinger's cat, trapped in a box. Opening the box and looking inside determines which reality I find, the poison of Glendale’s darkness, or the redemption of its joy. I never know which until I look. But I have to open it. It contains who I am.