Read Online Purple Golf Cart: The Misadventures of a Lesbian Grandma by Ronni Sanlo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ronni Sanlo
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quiet little guy who had migrated to Central Florida from South Carolina—Suth C’lina—when he was quite young. He was a Southern “cracker” and proud of it. He also had a history of being a fall-down drunk. He would take little Jake to bars with him when Jake was just a toddler, so Jake knew every swizzlin’ alcoholic in the county. When Big Jake found ‘ligion, he “got saved” and quit drinking. I remember one Sunday afternoon, sitting in a restaurant with the family when some sloshed old drunkard sauntered over to our table, leaned against my father-in-law and slurred, “Hey Big Jake, I liked ya’ better, boy, when ya’s a sonofabitch.” Cynda nearly choked.
When Big Jake got sober he became a land appraiser and made a ton of money evaluating major properties in central Florida. Cynda worked for Big Jake. I quickly discovered that Cynda was downright mean, not satisfied unless she controlled every person in her world. She soon detested me because, I suspected, she was unable to exert much control over me. She stopped at nothing, justifying everything in the name of God. Whether he agreed or not, Big Jake allowed Cynda her reign. Once when a flock of pigeons roosted on the roof of her house, Cynda announced, “Ah prayed really hawd for Gawd to remove those pigins, and lo-and-behold, He did! It was truly a merracle!” It wasn’t much of a merracle or miracle for the pigeons. They were lying dead in her back yard after having been shot at close range. Either she hired someone to do the deed or she did it herself. Regardless, I seriously doubt it was God’s intervention.
Jake’s folks were pleased that their son, a practicing atheist at the time and therefore a disappointment to them, married a Jewish woman. They said it “put diamonds in our God crown,” or something ridiculous like that. But that honeymoon didn’t last very long. I was a disappointment to them on a variety of levels, not the least being my growing need to distance myself from them, especially from Cynda.
I first became suspicious of Jake’s parents’ politics when they quit the Southern Baptist Church because it had become too liberal, they said. “It started lettin’ in the wrong people,” declared Cynda. So Big Jake and Cynda bought some land, built a big one-room structure, and formed their own church, the local Bible Church. Jake’s mother, now a church owner, informed pastors about what they must preach. If they didn’t preach the sermon of her choosing, they were fired. It was many a preacher who moved through those revolving doors of bigotry.
Jake’s parents often invaded our house on Sundays after their church service and brought some of their bigoted cronies with them—unannounced, of course, and with conversion on their minds. Jake and I hated when they did that, so one Sunday we answered the door in our bathrobes, looking as if we’d been romping in the hay.
“Well, hey there! Happy to see y’all although we weren’t expecting comp’ny, as y’all can see. Come on in! Have some sweet tea and a moon pie?” I was downright cheerful, sporting my best, albeit exaggerated, Southern accent. Horrified, they fled in a fury and never again returned on a Sunday morning without calling first.
During another visit, my daughter, Berit, who was about three years old at the time, was watching Sesame Street. Roosevelt, the African American Muppet, was doing a shtick with Bert and Ernie. Jake’s mother pointed to the television and tersely announced, “There Berit! There’s a nigga. You have tuh be careful ‘round them.”
“Whaaaat???” I was in disbelief! This was over the top, even for Cynda. “Don’t tell her stuff like that!”
“Well, ya know it’s true, Ronni. If a nigga has one ounce a whaht blood in ‘em, they got some hope. He maht even be able to get outta the yard and inta the house. But if a whaht person has an ounce a nigga blood in ‘em, he’ll always be
When Big Jake got sober he became a land appraiser and made a ton of money evaluating major properties in central Florida. Cynda worked for Big Jake. I quickly discovered that Cynda was downright mean, not satisfied unless she controlled every person in her world. She soon detested me because, I suspected, she was unable to exert much control over me. She stopped at nothing, justifying everything in the name of God. Whether he agreed or not, Big Jake allowed Cynda her reign. Once when a flock of pigeons roosted on the roof of her house, Cynda announced, “Ah prayed really hawd for Gawd to remove those pigins, and lo-and-behold, He did! It was truly a merracle!” It wasn’t much of a merracle or miracle for the pigeons. They were lying dead in her back yard after having been shot at close range. Either she hired someone to do the deed or she did it herself. Regardless, I seriously doubt it was God’s intervention.
Jake’s folks were pleased that their son, a practicing atheist at the time and therefore a disappointment to them, married a Jewish woman. They said it “put diamonds in our God crown,” or something ridiculous like that. But that honeymoon didn’t last very long. I was a disappointment to them on a variety of levels, not the least being my growing need to distance myself from them, especially from Cynda.
I first became suspicious of Jake’s parents’ politics when they quit the Southern Baptist Church because it had become too liberal, they said. “It started lettin’ in the wrong people,” declared Cynda. So Big Jake and Cynda bought some land, built a big one-room structure, and formed their own church, the local Bible Church. Jake’s mother, now a church owner, informed pastors about what they must preach. If they didn’t preach the sermon of her choosing, they were fired. It was many a preacher who moved through those revolving doors of bigotry.
Jake’s parents often invaded our house on Sundays after their church service and brought some of their bigoted cronies with them—unannounced, of course, and with conversion on their minds. Jake and I hated when they did that, so one Sunday we answered the door in our bathrobes, looking as if we’d been romping in the hay.
“Well, hey there! Happy to see y’all although we weren’t expecting comp’ny, as y’all can see. Come on in! Have some sweet tea and a moon pie?” I was downright cheerful, sporting my best, albeit exaggerated, Southern accent. Horrified, they fled in a fury and never again returned on a Sunday morning without calling first.
During another visit, my daughter, Berit, who was about three years old at the time, was watching Sesame Street. Roosevelt, the African American Muppet, was doing a shtick with Bert and Ernie. Jake’s mother pointed to the television and tersely announced, “There Berit! There’s a nigga. You have tuh be careful ‘round them.”
“Whaaaat???” I was in disbelief! This was over the top, even for Cynda. “Don’t tell her stuff like that!”
“Well, ya know it’s true, Ronni. If a nigga has one ounce a whaht blood in ‘em, they got some hope. He maht even be able to get outta the yard and inta the house. But if a whaht person has an ounce a nigga blood in ‘em, he’ll always be
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