Momma, Me and the Holler

Chapter 1 (work in progress)

I have two predominant memories of my father that stand out from all the rest. One was the day he died, and the other was the day he beat me.

The latter begins with Momma putting me in a frilly little dress, lacy white ankle socks, and shiny black patten leather shoes. If Momma had her way, she'd have dressed me like a doll every chance she got. Such clothing didn't really suit me well, though. I was prone to run about the yard, into the woods, and splash headlong through the creeks. I was a country kid, and fancy clothes just didn't do.

On this particular day, Momma had won the dress-up battle and set me loose in the backyard to play. It was a beautiful, sunny summer morning as my plump little legs carried me precariously off our back-porch steps and into the freshly cut grass of the yard. I reckon that I couldn't have been more than four or five years old at the time. I know this because Daddy was still alive. My childhood memory is riddled with holes, so I have learned to measure the happenings of things based on whether Daddy was alive or dead.

Gerald Holt Harding. That was his name. When Momma was mad at him, which as a young child seemed to be practically every single day, she'd speak his full name through gritted teeth. But instead of Holt, she'd just pronounce the initial – Gerald H. Harding, with extra emphasis on the H. Anytime I heard her draw out his name like that, I would run and hide in our small kitchen closet. I'd squeeze myself in as best I could, among the large sacks of flour and such that sat on the floor and Daddy's double-barrel shotgun. Then I'd hold my breath and wait. Usually, what sent me running to the closet was Daddy's drinking. He'd come home drunk after being out on a three or four-day bender, and Momma would tear into him. Times like this was when I was most scared of Daddy because his drinking always brought such chaos into our world.

But as I stood in the yard, my eyes darting about, looking for something or another to get into, my fears were more hushed inside my small head because Daddy wasn't drinking that morning. He and my two brothers, Larry and Tommy, were working on some old car that was up on blocks in one of the two dirt driveways situated at either end of the blue and white trailer that was our home. Their three heads were pushed together beneath the opened hood as they talked among themselves, my Daddy in the middle and a son at each of his sides.

As I stood in the backyard watching them, I paid close attention to how much they seemed to enjoy one another's company. They laughed and teased each other like old friends. Occasionally one of my brothers would elbow my father, and Daddy'd shake his head, mutter something, and they'd roar with laughter. Even though I couldn't make out the words they spoke or be privy to their inside jokes, I could tell they were content and comfortable together. Deep down inside of me somewhere, I felt envy and confusion because I didn't know this ease Larry and Tommy had with my Dad. Maybe I wasn't always shaking like a leaf with fear when he was around, but I was constantly waiting for everything to go bad. Time and time again, I had witnessed just how quickly pleasantness could turn to bedlam. So even as a young girl, I was more perspective than most grown adults. Such keenness comes from endless days of hanging onto the edge of impending mayhem and trying like all get out to claw ahead of it. This is the legacy of being the daughter of a drunk, I suppose. I was born into a world that required my mind to grow up fast and be sharp as an ax. Just like the baby critters I'd sometimes chase through the woods – I was born fighting to survive.

The sound of the back trailer door opening suddenly pulled my attention away from the trio and the old car. I looked to see a small little pampered boy lifted and sat down into the grass. A young woman with long dark hair let him go and sent him toddling across the yard.