Real Life Gorgi Porgi, Book 1

By George Hodge

I was a real life Gorgi Porgi who was born kicking and screaming in 1942 in a small village in Anguilla in the Caribbean. Born into a world of war (World War 2), rationing,drought, famine, superstition, poverty and marital tension, my life was not off to a good start.

However, as a boy growing up, I played baby house until I realised what I was doing - kissing the girls and later running away!

I invite you, in my initial five book series, to try to feel the pains; and, experience the joys and sorrows, the failures and successes, the hardships and the good times which I did until 1959.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Hodge
• Release date: Mar 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310065705

George Hodge

Born in Anguilla in the Caribbean in 1942, I have been lover of words from very early, playing with them in the dirt, on sand and on all types of paper, including brown cement bag.During my university years (1963-66) in Barbados, I was lucky to get short stories published in the leading newspaper. Titles include “The crane lift which was to be his last” and “The day the topless came to town”.In 1970, I completed a full novel with the same name; and, proceeded to write the play shortly thereafter. Unfortunately, both manuscripts were lost in a hurricane.If you google Anguilla Spoken Word, from 1:42 into the video, you will see me, in my golden years, breaking my public speaking phobia, I being the second guest presenter.I invite you to read and enjoy my salvaged poetic pieces. If you feel satisfied, please spread the word; and, also look out very soon for my biography and other works.

Book preview

Real Life

GORGI PORGI

Book 1

By George Hodge

Contents

Disclaimer

Chapter 1 - My birth

Chapter 2 - My toddler years

Chapter 3 - Early childhood memories

Chapter 4 - Change of address

Chapter 5 - Jollification

Chapter 6 - Moving back to Indian Bottom

Chapter 7 - School time!

Chapter 8 - Uncle Evons

Chapter 9 – Ma and me

Books 2 - 5: Chapter outlines

Links to other published ebooks

Disclaimer

While the story is biographical in nature - and, includes history, dates and other facts, circumstances, conditions and situations that might seem real, - it is staged in a fictitious island with fictitious characters.

Any resemblance to anyone living or dead; or, to any conversations or personal or known circumstances or conditions or situations is purely coincidental and is deeply regretted.

The publisher, author or the conduit are, therefore, not liable to any charges that any entity might wish to bring against them on any grounds.

Thanks,

George Hodge

CHAPTER 1 - My birth

I came into the world kicking and screaming!

Vic Kee, our family midwife, did not have to hold me upside down, like a fowl, with my two tiny bow-legged feet together in one hand; and, smack me on my bare buttocks with her free hand to get me to suddenly cry out loud to clear my wind passage. No! How I emerged made that unnecessary!

It seemed to be the custom; for, I still vividly remember her doing it to Amabel, my third sister, many moons ago, in the dawn of a dew-drenched November, two weeks after I had turned three.

No sir-ree! It was a defining statement - that I was different! - that I made from the second I entered this world.

Being different has its drawbacks; and, it took me little or no time to find this out. Thing is, I could feel the fallout; but, could only communicate my feeling through more kicking and screaming. Of course, I never remembered this; but, was told about it.

The problem about being told is that it probably caused mental scarring; for, why would I have such memories; since, any possible physical scars have long disappeared?

Born to Miss Joe and Haboo that auspicious day in September 1942, I - their first son whom they named after my mother's second brother, Jorge - immediately went on a bawling spree none could neither understand why nor stop.

It instantly turned my quiet, rented one-room, wooden family home into a war zone, pitting my frantic father against my distraught mother who clutched her wayward infant son to her bosom, as I continued the kicking, screaming and struggling.

My selfish behaviour quickly created a crisis which - like the occasional whirlwinds I witnessed as I grew up in the village - sucked in the extended family which was utterly helpless in its efforts to cure my unknown malady.

My matriarchal grandmother, Grandma, wasted no time in marshalling family members to the rescue. Two years prior, she had undertaken the caring for and upbringing of my first sibling, Sister Sue, in response to a different crisis - that which a first newborn can cause in the home of newlyweds.

That was the catalyst which exposed the drawback of the custom where couples in those days were deliberately and methodically prevented from dating properly. Pa often related how he had to throw pebbles or shelled pigeon peas or beans at Ma, as they sat - outside in the yard or inside in a small room, respectively - while in the company of her parents and siblings.

He, however, was more fortunate than her more qualified, suitable and desired suitors because, as the godson of Grandpa, he was a regular at their home; and, thus, had gotten more glimpses than his counterparts of the pretty brown skin girl.

Now, courtship in those days was drawn out over too long a period - something like seven years; but, glimpses are only glimpses; and, do not make up for proper dates through which couples are supposed to get to know each other well enough to withstand the challenges which often quickly reveal themselves after the eventual wedding.

Enter a newborn quickly into this environment; and, bingo, a crisis is created! One which the adverse effects of World War 2 certainly exacerbated, there being scarcity of imported food basics due to German submarine sinkings of merchant ships in the Atlantic and far into the Caribbean itself.

In addition, throw in the absence of paid work on the island; and, the frustration that comes with having little or no money to buy the few essentials that were available; and, the new family almost inevitably flounders from the start.

It's said that, generally, after the honeymoon is over, all hell immediately starts to manifest itself; and, that this can happen even when a spouse idolises the other, as Pa certainly did Ma!; even when the couple grew up in a deeply religious home and a generally religious environment; and, even when the couple’s daily lives and living are guided by generally accepted, age-long, customary principles and practices.

It is also said, It takes a village to raise a child! It literally took the village of the Copse to start the first leg of my upbringing, my extended family being predominant there, in terms of numbers, wealth and social standing.

Villagers participated in the vigil that immediately followed my birth. My home became the scene similar to that associated with the casting out of a demon - black cloths, candles and scissors opened across particular pages of the Bible, baby George being the centre of it all.

The only success it had, I was told, was the scaring away or early departure of the tenant of the western room of my uncle's standard size wooden home that stood on wooden pegs and four rock foundation pillars just yards away from my grandparents' also shingled wooden home - a grand, double roof building with three bedrooms and a living and dining room.

A separate cement building housed their inside kitchen, complete with a kerosene stove and oven. Just outside - within a rock wall circle - most of all the family's cooking and baking, with wood, took place.

The yard building also housed a homemade shower system. Rain water for bathing was caught and stored in a catchment on top the roof. During drought, water from the spring at the western end of the nearby pond was stored in it for bathing.

Great big, brown sugar bags of pigeon peas and casks filled with corn were stored in another room. Most of this produce represented the quarter part received from persons cultivating land owned by Grandpa and Grandma.

A free-standing, wooden restroom (WC) stood quietly, like a sentinel, some distance away. It saw and heard most things; and, was, dependably, tight-lipped about all that occurred therein; for, it surely was a safe place to slip in and out of; and, to do all manner of unimaginable things – like possibly losing a virginity!

In return for the important role it played in the lives of family members, relatives, friends, visitors and squatters, it merely silently requested of its guests that they would replace the cover after using it; and, reminded the keepers to sprinkle the deposits with a little soil, from time to time, to keep the flies away and the stench down.

It was in this yard that the villagers, family members, relatives and friends from all across the island gathered on weekends and holidays to have a jolly good time. They ate out of great big enamel or pewter plates that were filled with rice and peas and meat from slaughtered pigs, goats or sheep; and, drank cask rum; while, the musicians among them took turns at playing the various instruments in scratch band style.

Hey, life and living was simple, though things were tough most of the time. There was always a shortage of money to buy lard, butter, kerosene, vaseline and such essentials; but, no shortage of liquor; for, because of high customs duties, smuggling became rampant to also provide some of the basic necessities; and, with peas, potatoes, corn and other ground provisions usually in adequate supply, folks praised their Good Lord. They allowed nothing to stop them from having a good time, every opportunity that availed itself.

The crisis my birth brought about was such an opportunity; but, not one for Pa who was more a loner than anything else; and, who always craved solitude and peace.

The vigil only frustrated him further. After a short while, he could not take any more of it; or, of my tormenting him; so,