GRANDPAW WAS A BILIMIC

Note-Every family has a nut or two


You know when you're just a little kid, if your family is strange or different, you don't know it until you go to school and get out in the world a bit. Looking back over my family there seemed to be an unusually large number of people that, today, would be in therapy, or on some talk show.

I'm one of 'em, did the therapy thing, but it didn't help much. Today I think the advancement of our technology has made it almost impossible to keep family secrets. Now if your Aunt Molly drank and didn't wear underwear, someone would be there with a digital camera to catch her when she fell down the steps. It would be on social web sites by dark.

My family can count on me to drag up the stories from our world before computers. I should warn you, however, if you have a weak stomach, just go read the newspaper. This is not a story you'll enjoy and I am not interested in your lectures that a grandmother shouldn't write such trash. Trash is never boring and I am not smart enough to write serious stuff. I write what I know.

The head nut in our family was my Grandpaw Larry and I loved him. He has been dead more than 30 years, so I hope it is safe to write about him.

Grandpaw owned a large cattle and cotton farm, Cammack Plantation, along Red River, outside of Natchitoches. He never learned to read and write, other than signing his name. But he could outsmart anyone in a business deal and could do math in his head. He was a small man, about 5' 7", ordinary in the face and always wore freshly ironed clothes. He looked just like all the plantation owners portrayed in movies from the 40's and 50's. He was a control freak, but back then we didn't have a name for it, we just knew that his word was law. Three of his frightened sons and their families lived on the farm. When PaPa spoke, everyone jumped.

My Grandmaw had learned to live with him by being passive aggressive and a hypochondriac. She wore a rag around her head holding a piece of brown paper bag soaked in vinegar for headaches, sort of her signature fashion statement, day in and day out. No, we didn't think this was strange, so we never thought to suggest that a couple of aspirin might do the trick. She was a store house of dysfunction. But this is Grandpaw's story.

Each morning he awoke about day break and would sit down to a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and several cups of black coffee. Grandmaw would scurry back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room as he barked orders. They never really talked, with the marriage having settled into one of convience years ago. He did his control freak thing and she visited the sick and was a big fan of funerals.

The scene was repeated at dinner, with only the menu changed, the table loaded down with fried chicken, pork chops, or steaks. There were all sorts of vegetables cooked down with pieces of fatty pork. Rice and gravy was served up each day at lunch and supper. Then, he was served homemade pie or cake, along with a second glass of milk.

At supper it was a repeat of lunch, but year in and year out his weight stayed pretty much the same. And this was his diet secret, long before all the little rich girls, were starving themselves to get back at their perfect controlling mothers. Grandpaw was a bulimic. He just didn't know to be ashamed.

He would stuff himself with food, give a big burp, and walk out to the front porch. His sons would follow him; they would take a straight back chair and leaning back until they touched the wall, close their eyes for a quick nap. I think napping this way is a lost art. Grandpaw would pull his rocking chair to the edge of the porch and remove his false teeth, putting them in his shirt pocket. Leaning over he would start gagging. He had a real gift for gagging, it was loud and long. Soon he started vomiting up all of food from his meal. Out from under the porch came the hound dogs that had been sleeping and waiting. They didn't mind that the food was a bit chewed up and secondhand.

Any dinner guest would follow him to the porch, thinking they were going to sit down after such a wonderful meal, and pass the time of day, while rocking or swinging. You know like normal people. At first they would look around for someone to explain what was happening. Since we didn't know any better, the men didn't open their eyes and the women would just pick up the mealtime conversation, talking about recent deaths or the weather. Neither Grandpaw nor any of the family thought to be embarrassed or to offer an explanation to any guest. The weak stomached guests took to visiting between meals.

After several minutes of this show stopping performance, he would wipe his face with his handkerchief, and shout at my grandmother, "Isora, bring me some soda water."

She would come running to him with a glass half filled with water and baking soda. He would drink it and wait for the big burp. Replacing his teeth, he would slide his rocker around and join the conversation.

It is now 20011 and our family has never talked about this strange behavior. But I bet after this story gets around, they'll not only discuss it with me, but ask why I felt it was necessary to bring it up at all. I won't have any explanation. Then they will kill me with their pitch forks and torches.