her
woman
instead of
Mother
. No one knows why he was snappy with her, not really. Preacher Smoot says Jesus wanted to let his mama know that he wasn’t
merely
her son, and that he belonged to God. But I think Jesus might have been trying to make Mary understand that she wasn’t
merely
his mother, that she was holy, that she could do miracles too if she set her mind to it—like turning water into wine at that wedding instead of him having to do EVERYTHING HIMSELF.
My brain gets a cramp trying to figure out what kind of mama Mary was or what kind of son Jesus was. No one will ever know besides them. Just like no one will ever know what kind of daughter I am or what kind of daddy I have.
9 du·plic·i·tous
1: marked by deliberate deceptiveness
2: pretending one set of feelings and acting under the influence of another
“God is the author of all our emotions,” some preacher shouts on the radio. “No sirree—ain’t no use whatsoever in running away from our feelings. God made them all. Joy. Sadness. Anger. Hate. Fear. Love. Disgust. Lust. Pity. Shame. Pride. And sooner or later, brothers and sisters, we have to face what’s in our own hearts—the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly.”
Daddy’s driving and smoking Camels like they’re going out of style. I’m doodling jack-o’-lanterns in the margins of my Latin notebook.
“Mind if I have some of that water?” he asks.
I hand him my canteen and he puts it between his legs. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out three BC powders and chokes them down with a swig of water. I feel an intsy bit sorry for him. His mama dying when he was three years old messed him up bad. I can’t imagine being in this world without a mother. Mama’s course is charted all the way to heaven, and she’s expecting her kids to tag along right behind her, which beats tagging along behind Daddy into a piping hot eternity.
When I woke up this morning, three pitiful zombies were stumbling around like they’d spent the night in hell. Daddy looked as if he were trying to remember something and forget it at the same time. Teeny looked lost as a silly sheep, and Crawdad smelled like he’d just crawled out of the grave.
After Billy Ray cooked breakfast, we sat on the hill near the reservoir. He called out spelling words, but I couldn’t concentrate. He kept asking me if I was all right. I finally broke down and told him how sick I was of living with Daddy. He sat there for a long time with his arm around my shoulder until I stopped crying. Then he talked about how we are not responsible for our parents’ actions: “What they do is between them and their maker” were his exact words. When Billy Ray talks serious like that, I listen.
On the radio the preacher keeps exhorting about our emotions, but I’m too tired to
feel
a damn thing, so I turn off the radio and look over my Latin phrases for the week.
Errare humanum est
. To err is human.
Memento mori
. Remember you must die.
Ad augusta per augusta
. To high places by narrow roads.
Cogitationis poenam nemo patitur
. Nobody should be punished for his thoughts.
I really like the idea about not being punished for your thoughts. It must be a Catholic policy. Baptists believe that thinking something is the same as doing it. A phrase from Mr. Emerson’s essay pops into my head, so I add it to the list:
Res nolunt diu male administrari
. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.
Finally, Daddy pulls into our driveway and Mama comes outside, looking refreshed in her church clothes—until she sees how miserable we look and how dirty everything is. Her mouth gets in that tight little
o
, and she tells Daddy he needs to stay home and bathe his nasty sons and put them to bed. But, Lord knows, I am raring to go. I scrub myself good and put on my navy blue jumper, white blouse, and navy blue loafers—clothes pleasing to Mama.
The Red Clover Second Baptist Church bus honks the horn out front. The bus looks pitiful, like a
woman
instead of
Mother
. No one knows why he was snappy with her, not really. Preacher Smoot says Jesus wanted to let his mama know that he wasn’t
merely
her son, and that he belonged to God. But I think Jesus might have been trying to make Mary understand that she wasn’t
merely
his mother, that she was holy, that she could do miracles too if she set her mind to it—like turning water into wine at that wedding instead of him having to do EVERYTHING HIMSELF.
My brain gets a cramp trying to figure out what kind of mama Mary was or what kind of son Jesus was. No one will ever know besides them. Just like no one will ever know what kind of daughter I am or what kind of daddy I have.
9 du·plic·i·tous
1: marked by deliberate deceptiveness
2: pretending one set of feelings and acting under the influence of another
“God is the author of all our emotions,” some preacher shouts on the radio. “No sirree—ain’t no use whatsoever in running away from our feelings. God made them all. Joy. Sadness. Anger. Hate. Fear. Love. Disgust. Lust. Pity. Shame. Pride. And sooner or later, brothers and sisters, we have to face what’s in our own hearts—the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly.”
Daddy’s driving and smoking Camels like they’re going out of style. I’m doodling jack-o’-lanterns in the margins of my Latin notebook.
“Mind if I have some of that water?” he asks.
I hand him my canteen and he puts it between his legs. Then he reaches into his pocket and takes out three BC powders and chokes them down with a swig of water. I feel an intsy bit sorry for him. His mama dying when he was three years old messed him up bad. I can’t imagine being in this world without a mother. Mama’s course is charted all the way to heaven, and she’s expecting her kids to tag along right behind her, which beats tagging along behind Daddy into a piping hot eternity.
When I woke up this morning, three pitiful zombies were stumbling around like they’d spent the night in hell. Daddy looked as if he were trying to remember something and forget it at the same time. Teeny looked lost as a silly sheep, and Crawdad smelled like he’d just crawled out of the grave.
After Billy Ray cooked breakfast, we sat on the hill near the reservoir. He called out spelling words, but I couldn’t concentrate. He kept asking me if I was all right. I finally broke down and told him how sick I was of living with Daddy. He sat there for a long time with his arm around my shoulder until I stopped crying. Then he talked about how we are not responsible for our parents’ actions: “What they do is between them and their maker” were his exact words. When Billy Ray talks serious like that, I listen.
On the radio the preacher keeps exhorting about our emotions, but I’m too tired to
feel
a damn thing, so I turn off the radio and look over my Latin phrases for the week.
Errare humanum est
. To err is human.
Memento mori
. Remember you must die.
Ad augusta per augusta
. To high places by narrow roads.
Cogitationis poenam nemo patitur
. Nobody should be punished for his thoughts.
I really like the idea about not being punished for your thoughts. It must be a Catholic policy. Baptists believe that thinking something is the same as doing it. A phrase from Mr. Emerson’s essay pops into my head, so I add it to the list:
Res nolunt diu male administrari
. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.
Finally, Daddy pulls into our driveway and Mama comes outside, looking refreshed in her church clothes—until she sees how miserable we look and how dirty everything is. Her mouth gets in that tight little
o
, and she tells Daddy he needs to stay home and bathe his nasty sons and put them to bed. But, Lord knows, I am raring to go. I scrub myself good and put on my navy blue jumper, white blouse, and navy blue loafers—clothes pleasing to Mama.
The Red Clover Second Baptist Church bus honks the horn out front. The bus looks pitiful, like a
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