called him that since his parents had passed). Ham could lift up the back end of his Ford Pickup with those big, salt-roughened paws of his; while in the next instance those same sausage fingers could tenderly pluck an eyelash from Rusty’s eye. Ham was dark, while his wife and son had more of a café au lait skin tone. The laugh lines around his eyes, which Betty Anne called his “Map of Mirth,” grew a little bit deeper with each passing year. A jovial man by nature, a smile was Ham’s constant companion. His booming laughter was a frequent sound heard on Moon.
That’s not to say that Ham had never known heartbreak before. No, he was well acquainted with that kind of grief. But he was the kind of man who understood that there are two kinds of grief in life. The kind that every one of us has to suffer through—the inevitable loss of a parent, the passing of a dear friend or cherished pet. Then there was the kind of grief that punched you in the balls. Grief so raw and seemingly so unnecessary that it made you doubt the existence of a caring God.
Bud Brown, Rusty’s friend and sometime protector, was on a first name basis with that vicious emotion. And like most folks on Moon, Ham Huggins was a little bit in awe of that big brooding boy.
Much as he admired his daddy, Rusty often found the old man to be tiresome. He was constantly preaching the virtues of a hard day’s work and the advantages of a good education. This, despite the fact his dad had dropped out of school (or maybe because of it).
That’s not to say Rusty was ashamed of his dad’s folksy vocabulary and ways. On the contrary. Rusty was well aware of his family’s history on Moon, and was justifiably proud. Even so, there isn’t an adolescent on earth who thinks his parents are fit to be seen in public.
His granddaddy, Jessie Huggins, brought his pregnant wife to the island, back in 1958. In one fell swoop, he’d landed a job as lighthouse keeper and had put a roof over his family’s head. Such as it was. Back then Moon Island was just an overgrown, lizard infested, hummock out to sea. Too far from the mainland to be of much use, its beaches, for the most part, too narrow and steep to attract tourists. Its only purpose at the time was the lighthouse on the east end of the island, warning boaters of the extremely shallow waters on that coastline. Despite the decent wages offered by the state, most people considered the caretaker job too isolated from the real world. For a black man living in the South at that time, however, it was a dream job. Except for a rare visit or two from an officious inspector, they left Jessie pretty much alone.
Six months after Jessie and his young wife Reva set foot on Moon, Samuel J. Huggins was born, making him the first natural born native of Moon Island. At least to anyone’s recollection. Tending to the lighthouse took very little time out of Jessie’s day. In fact it wasn’t long before Reva, bored out of her mind, took to those chores herself. This freed up her husband to build a better home for their family. The windowless lighthouse had quarters at its base for the keeper, but they were much too spare and dark for a family of three. Eventually, Jessie built a spacious, airy cabin right beside the tower. Using the lighthouse quarters thereafter as a storm pantry. The sprawling log home had three bedrooms, a large sitting room, a fair-sized kitchen, and a bathroom, complete with working john and claw foot bathtub. All topped off with a good tin roof. Practically the Taj Mahal for a man who’d never lived in anything bigger than a shotgun shack before!
A wide lowcountry porch encircled the pine cabin, from which Jess and Reva could sit in the shade, while watching their son play in the sandy yard, or just to take in their impressive view of the All Mighty Atlantic.
Despite how well things had turned out, Jessie couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. A black man living in the
That’s not to say that Ham had never known heartbreak before. No, he was well acquainted with that kind of grief. But he was the kind of man who understood that there are two kinds of grief in life. The kind that every one of us has to suffer through—the inevitable loss of a parent, the passing of a dear friend or cherished pet. Then there was the kind of grief that punched you in the balls. Grief so raw and seemingly so unnecessary that it made you doubt the existence of a caring God.
Bud Brown, Rusty’s friend and sometime protector, was on a first name basis with that vicious emotion. And like most folks on Moon, Ham Huggins was a little bit in awe of that big brooding boy.
Much as he admired his daddy, Rusty often found the old man to be tiresome. He was constantly preaching the virtues of a hard day’s work and the advantages of a good education. This, despite the fact his dad had dropped out of school (or maybe because of it).
That’s not to say Rusty was ashamed of his dad’s folksy vocabulary and ways. On the contrary. Rusty was well aware of his family’s history on Moon, and was justifiably proud. Even so, there isn’t an adolescent on earth who thinks his parents are fit to be seen in public.
His granddaddy, Jessie Huggins, brought his pregnant wife to the island, back in 1958. In one fell swoop, he’d landed a job as lighthouse keeper and had put a roof over his family’s head. Such as it was. Back then Moon Island was just an overgrown, lizard infested, hummock out to sea. Too far from the mainland to be of much use, its beaches, for the most part, too narrow and steep to attract tourists. Its only purpose at the time was the lighthouse on the east end of the island, warning boaters of the extremely shallow waters on that coastline. Despite the decent wages offered by the state, most people considered the caretaker job too isolated from the real world. For a black man living in the South at that time, however, it was a dream job. Except for a rare visit or two from an officious inspector, they left Jessie pretty much alone.
Six months after Jessie and his young wife Reva set foot on Moon, Samuel J. Huggins was born, making him the first natural born native of Moon Island. At least to anyone’s recollection. Tending to the lighthouse took very little time out of Jessie’s day. In fact it wasn’t long before Reva, bored out of her mind, took to those chores herself. This freed up her husband to build a better home for their family. The windowless lighthouse had quarters at its base for the keeper, but they were much too spare and dark for a family of three. Eventually, Jessie built a spacious, airy cabin right beside the tower. Using the lighthouse quarters thereafter as a storm pantry. The sprawling log home had three bedrooms, a large sitting room, a fair-sized kitchen, and a bathroom, complete with working john and claw foot bathtub. All topped off with a good tin roof. Practically the Taj Mahal for a man who’d never lived in anything bigger than a shotgun shack before!
A wide lowcountry porch encircled the pine cabin, from which Jess and Reva could sit in the shade, while watching their son play in the sandy yard, or just to take in their impressive view of the All Mighty Atlantic.
Despite how well things had turned out, Jessie couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. A black man living in the
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