My Dad's a writer. He has a few novels under his belt, a few scripts, an extensive editorial credit and the like. I haven't read any of it, and until recently, wasn't too compelled to start. Fortunately, I made it to a poetry reading he was asked to attend and what he read that day has opened windows I didn't know were shut. You see, normally I am nursing a hangover, resting from a late night or dancing, or am just-plain too lazy to get out of bed before 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I figure, since he was reading some new material that he really hadn't brought up before, I would go show some support. At least some bleary-eyed, half asleep and in need of a cup of coffee support, if nothing else.
The library near my place was celebrating another year, and they approriately invited some local authors to read to the screaming kids, volunteers, other writers, and their kin attending the party. 8 a.m. Let me reiterate that part. So after a band and two readers had their time, L.V. was called up to read a selection of poetry he was in the process of polishing up, entitled "The Black Dirt Struggles of Fairly, Texas".
Fairly was the small town he lived in with his Momma and Dad, and six other siblings. It is about 30 East of Greenville, and back then, its existence relied soley on the cotton gin in town. The Davis clan were share croppers. Cotton picking to sustain a life, everyone but his Momma and the youngest girls worked the fields. The youngest eligible was my Dad. Six years old and putting in 10 hours a day on some days, it is no mystery from where his tenacity was grown. The guy was busting his knuckles at age six, whereas at six, I was still trying to master the zen art of shoe-tieing. Respect. It was a tough life, and until the library reading, this was all I really knew about those tough years.
So there I sat, under a tree, on grass, as my Dad took the podium and produced a binder stuffed to capacity with notes and papers. Hardly the image of a "professional writer". Kids running, eating melted icecream. A few of the older follks and some library volunteers scattered about joined me as Larry introduced himself and explained the work and its context. Roughly: A nonfiction book of prose, describing those lean years, during the longest drought in Texas history, just before he and his sibs were sent away to a foster home..."
Those seeing my Dad without knowing his aura might mistake him for a homeless man. Peppered, unkempt hair, mustace to match. Thick glasses held together with a paperclip and a rubberband (I shit you not). A button down shirt that never lookd as good as the day it was pulled off the rack at Wal-Mart. Not dirty, mind you. Just messy. Or eccentric or bohemian, depending on how you vote. His eyes are a rich hazel green and despite the rough framing of his wiley, wirey hair, they glint with the joy and sadness of a boy. His eyes, they do smile, and they project his true personality. Smart, keen to joke, full of puns and opinions, ready to laugh, and accepting of more things than most folks would expect of a man of his generation. His warm voice is good with words, as one would expect of an author. A voice not unlike leather; well worn-in and comfortable. He's an easy guy to like if not see eye to eye with. I guess when you come from such deep poverty, you can easily accept the wart and moles on yourself and others. Not to say that L.V. ever just accepted things the way they were for himself and his kids. He always put those around him first and tried his damnedest to make the best situations better. Just that now, he knows that in the end, hapiness is in the dirt, below the castle.
So L.V. start his reading. First, appropriately, a free verse about the humble joys of a big, close, but poor family, enjoying simple things together. Ice cream socials; picking berries with the sisters for a pie; playing with the dog; hunting with his Daddy and Uncles. It started to sink in what I was hearing. There were innumerable details that were there in that ratty binder, that was a window into my father and myself. A simple, and deeper understanding of us, he, and I. As L.V. went from topic to topic, his leathery voice bouncing from description of ice cream, to hunting, to winters endured with no heat, to the final death of his mother in childbirth, I understood the formerly haggard man behind the mic. His voice and words hit me like the leathery fist of a loved one, right in the gut. I sat there as he finished his portion of the event and thanked the library for its ackowledgement as I caught my breath. It actually took me a good minute to regain control of my wrinkling chin and the tear ducts it is indelibly attached to. Luckily, I wasn't the only one with less-than-dry eyes.
I wanted to hear more. I wanted to know more. There is a lot more to know.
