Morris

By Art Isaacs

Who Is Morris?

Morris takes a journey through several generations of a remarkable and resilient family, following them over more than 60 years, chronicling how they dealt with growing up in the face of loss, adversity, and tragedy, as well as with triumph. The result of editing together numerous personal journals, Morris documents their individual experiences of life, love, and relationships as they struggled to gain acceptance, fight discrimination, and overcome the attitudes and prejudices of their times with regard to race, gender, ethnicity, sexual preference, and politics.

Beginning in the summer of 1965, this starts as a school assignment made to a then-teenaged Jessie Peterson as he made a point of constantly complaining to everyone about how boring and backward life is in his sleepy small town on the Florida Panhandle. Jessie dreams of when he would be able to get away and see the world, but circumstance and the reality of his family’s needs conspire against those dreams and set up obstacles, as he endures to build his own life and tries to find happiness. He then encourages his daughter as the next generation to begin chronicling her own life and the issues that she faces, which she then passes on to her children as they come of age to do the same, even as we continue to follow Jessie, his siblings, their families, and their extended families from their teens to adulthood, to being parents, and eventually as grandparents.

When at one point an adult Jessie is asked whom he has been writing his journal to, he replies, “If not to myself, I would be writing to Morris.” Hence the title. A nonspeaking character, Morris is part of everyone’s lives and stories, contributing to the overall context and continuity without writing or uttering a single word. But he is as much a member of this family as anyone else. He’s always there silently, as part of the thread that helps weave the fabric of all their lives and adventures together.

But just who is Morris?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662439223

Book preview

1

Tell me somethin’, girl, are you happy in this modern world? Or do you need more? Is there somethin’ else you’re searchin’ for?

—Lady Gaga / Bradley Cooper, Shallow

July 25, 1965

Let me introduce myself. I am Jessie Peterson. I’m fourteen and have been given an assignment by my teacher to write down my experiences this summer with my family in this stupid, boring Florida town we live in. It really is boring, and nothing ever happens here. And because I complain so much about that, she’s made me take part of my time off this summer to look at everything and maybe find out it isn’t so boring here. Or dumb. Or uninteresting. Fat chance!

I am the youngest of my family. I have three older brothers and a sister. Ian is the eldest, next being George, and then Steve, who is half of a pair of twins. Roberta (Bobbi) is the other half. Ian is almost seven years older than I am. He’s the one we all look up to. You know the type: athletic, tall, a former high school jock, where he played football and was quarterback. He’s already graduated from a local campus of Florida State University (FSU), married his high school sweetheart, Judy, and now works full-time at a large local machine shop, the Gray Machine Works, owned by a friend of my father, Bradley Gray. Pretty much the route most kids around here take—marrying and settling down in the town they were born in. He’s smart, a hard worker, and happy with his life here, with no ambition beyond being here, doing this. He’ll probably do well, but so (yawn) totally boring. Yuck!

George is two years younger than Ian, five years older than me. He’s the muscle of the family. He’s big (taller than Ian at six foot three, with a good twenty pounds on him), strong, and a bit of a bully. Well, at least to me he is. High school wrestling team captain, he’s not exactly our brain trust, but he’s not completely stupid. His pleasant attitude says it all. His least-threatening way of asking me for help with anything is, Do it and I’ll let you live! He recently graduated high school and started at a two-year junior college end of last summer. His grades didn’t get him into a four-year school, so he’s hoping he can get his grades up to be admitted to a four-year college after finishing here. He’s also thinking about what he’ll do next should that not happen. Without being in school or working at what would be considered an essential job, he’s eligible for the Army. There’s a war in Vietnam that is getting worse, and they are now starting to draft boys as soldiers to be trained and shipped off to fight there. Ian already has offered to get him a job to work at the machine shop (part-time now, full-time on graduation), which should be considered essential work, as they now produce military aircraft parts in addition to those for oil rigs, so Mom is pushing him in that direction. Dad wants him to eventually join our family business, the largest grocery store in the county (I’ll get to more on that later), but George may have other ideas.

The twins are three years younger than George. Steve is the family whiz kid. He is smart and an insatiable reader. He’s always got his head in a book. And while he plays baseball (a pitcher) in high school, that’s more for Dad. He’s a bit of a nerd, and his idea of fun is reading anything, even the manuals that come with new appliances. And he remembers every word of what he reads, even the diagrams! Do not hand him any tools, though—he’s positively dangerous with them! He’s looking at going out of town to school to be an engineer. Finally, someone with a plan for a life beyond the borders of this town!

Bobbi, the other half of the twins, is probably the overall smartest of us all. She’s certainly the sharpest. She is very nontraditional (for a girl). She seldom wears skirts or dresses, preferring to wear shorts, slacks, or jeans most of the time, often getting reprimanded for not following the school dress code, which she has taken a particular dislike to and is fighting to have changed. She runs track and gets good grades, but they don’t really show off her intelligence. She’s pretty, not too tall, with a lean, athletic build, and her sandy-blond hair is kept somewhat short and perpetually in a ponytail, sticking out the back of her Atlanta Braves baseball cap. She usually wears that hat with sunglasses and no makeup, except for maybe when she goes out on a date. She’s got an energetic and passionate attitude for what she cares about. She’s also a gossip and busybody. Her hobby is getting into everyone’s business. She sees everything and can generally draw the right conclusion from all that she sees. It’s annoying for me but fascinating to watch, especially since she yearns to be an attorney. Very politically active and feels a girl can do anything a guy can—maybe even better! Good luck with that!

And then there’s me. Least interesting of us all, I often fall through the cracks and get forgotten. Of all my family, besides being the youngest, I am also the smallest. That’s not just because I’m young (my fourteenth birthday was in May) but just because I am. I’m a good four to six inches shorter than anyone else in the family. And I look like no one else in the family, being very skinny, dark-eyed, and dark-haired, where everyone else is some varying degree of blue-eyed and blond. George says I was an accident and a mistake. Really? Has he looked in a mirror lately?

I’m also different in that I have absolutely no interest in sports of any kind, something neither my father nor brothers (especially George) can understand at all. Not even to watch. Even my sister roots for the Atlanta Braves. I sometimes think my folks brought the wrong baby home from the hospital when I was born. What says I do have some connection to my family is that I have my grandfather’s (Pops) inherent ability to understand and fix just about anything mechanical. None of my siblings or parents can do this, so I’ve earned my rank in the family order, because everyone eventually comes to me with something to fix or explain. Steve and I make a great pair because he can remember everything but can’t do a thing with a tool, and I can follow what he says without ever having seen the manual or what needs to be fixed or assembled before.

My dad, George Peterson Sr., grew up here and inherited his business from his father, Ian Peterson Sr. His father established the store but sadly died of a heart attack in his late forties, so my dad took over running the business at a very young age. He then built it from his father’s very modest local and basic general store to the first regional supermarket. His thinking is different from his father’s. He’s very expansive and inclusive, as he changed stock to provide services and products that would also cater to (and attract) the minority communities in the area.

Besides being different from his father in business, my dad is also actually very different from most of the local residents in the way he thinks and acts. There is a large Latin American community that has been here forever just outside of town. The community and the town have continued to grow and mix together, so they now overlap in places. My father’s childhood friends had always been wary and unwelcoming to the point of being abusive to any outsiders, but particularly to them (read that as they are classic redneck, bigoted morons!). My father, on the other hand, has embraced the Latins since he’s a kid. Even before he was running his business, he had learned Spanish and, after he took over from his father, began adding products in the store they liked or couldn’t get elsewhere. It was not only good business; it was personal. His larger circle of close friends grew to not just include but to be mainly from these Hispanic communities. He plays cards and dominoes routinely with them, is invited and regularly attends their birthday parties, weddings, baptisms, and funerals, and even supports their yearly church barbecue with donations of food, drinks, and paper goods, working with and becoming very close to the patriarchal family of the community, the Berniers. Many of them have become as much a part of our lives as family. For a man that grew up, went to school, and lived here his whole life, surrounded by a mostly White, segregated, insular community, with no other worldly experience beyond being a soldier during the Korean War* for a short time, this was earth-shattering!

For all this forward-thinking and business ambition, he and my mom, Liza, have no thoughts or desires for anything other than their family, business, and home, pretty much in that order of priority. Family is everything to us, and no one does anything major without a family council, where everyone seems to have a say in your life. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. There is this communications underground in this town that if you do something noteworthy—good, bad, or otherwise—that news generally reaches your family before you get home. I call it the grapevine. It’s just another wonderful part of living here. And I absolutely hate it!

It’s my Pops (my mom’s father) and his brother, my uncle Matt, whose lives have shown me there’s more to the world than is here. They’ve traveled everywhere for work. They are roughnecks, an experienced and fearless team hired by independent oiler drillers and the major oil and mining companies as experts for support or to fix what’s gone really wrong anywhere in the world. They, and my grandmother, who runs the business office from their house and often goes with them, are on planes or ships at the drop of a hat when called. I keep track of where they go, putting pins in a map on my wall. I often have to look a lot of the countries and cities up in an encyclopedia! They recently returned from South America after two months there, having started working in the oil fields of Maracaibo, Venezuela, and finishing at the gold mines of Guyana. Yeah, I had to look both of those up.

Pops, whose real name is Eugene James Walker (but don’t ever call him Eugene, or even Gene, because he hates the names!), is short and bald—swearing he was taller with a full head of dark hair, having shrunk and lost his hair from being exposed to chemicals on the job—with dark blue-gray eyes and a gray walrus-type mustache. He is heavyset, strong, and always tanned. He always wears a wide-brimmed straw hat and round Teddy Roosevelt-type glasses or sunglasses. He talks to everyone and makes friends wherever he goes. He is interested in and respectful of local people and cultures, so besides being sought for his expertise, he is welcomed back when he goes anywhere again as a person. He always has a story to tell, which I love listening to, even if I think some may be exaggerated a bit. I guess I take after him in more than how I think.

His brother is completely the opposite. Uncle Matt is very tall and lanky, thin with long legs, a full head of blond hair (that which is not gray), and dark-green eyes. He reminds me of a cowboy, down to the leather boots and hat he wears that look like they have dust on them from everywhere he’s ever been. His skin is always tanned dark and looks like wrinkled leather. He seems to always have a cigarette hanging out of the corner of a constant frown on his face, looking like he’s always unhappy, but he’s just serious and really very warm and helpful. He can be very funny, but you have to listen closely for it. He’s single, is quiet, and doesn’t talk much, preferring to have his brother or my grandma do all the talking and handling the business. What he does say is always worth hearing, though.

The Peterson and Walker families have been here since before the American Revolution, having come as traders and trappers when this was still Spanish territory in the mid- to late 1600s. And there are several branches and generations that still can be traced directly back to them. Most have no idea or desire to leave, but I’m not content to stay here.

---

* My great-grandfather served in the Army during the Korean conflict but was never shipped overseas and was never in combat. He did serve at numerous bases around the country, which only helped with further developing his view and acceptance of people of different races, religions, and backgrounds. (Matt)

2

Well, she’s fashionably lean, and she’s fashionably late. She’ll never wreck a scene. She’ll never break a date, but she’s no drag, just watch the way she walks.

—The Doors, Twentieth Century Fox

Despite my always being bored by nothing exciting happening in this town, my life was generally pretty good. I could always find something fun to do, and I had any number of friends in town and at school that I spent a lot of time with. It was now our summer break, and without school, all the guys usually only wanted to play baseball, which was the last thing I wanted to do. But they also liked to go swimming, which was where I suddenly became their best friend. My Pops’s place had a lake on it you could swim, fish, or boat in, so I saw a lot of them. There was a dock you could jump or dive off, and a large barn Pops used as a shop, inside of which he would let us use some old stalls like a locker room to change or hang out in if it rained.

The kids I invited didn’t necessarily come alone—more like they would bring some of their friends with them, which then became a larger crowd as their friends invited others. Of late, that crowd started including girls, so there were now rules Grandma enforced, with no boys allowed in the barn when the girls were changing, and vice versa. In some cases, these additional friends were to mask the fact that some boys and girls were maybe becoming more than just friendly. Before or after swimming, the guys always would go play ball somewhere. I didn’t and found myself more often in the company of a group that included more of the girls.

I didn’t mind, and I found that there was this one girl that I liked talking to and being with. Her name was Kathy, and I started seeing her in town, even when the group was not around or going swimming. She and her family had moved here from Atlanta about six months ago, so she was still new and not totally part of the regular crowd yet. We’d bump into each other and talk, have a soda together, sitting together on a bench in the park across the street from the store (hey, my dad owned the store, so getting them was easy!).

She was very pretty, with short light-blond hair and these big blue eyes. She was shorter than I was, but not by much. Her attitude was different from everyone else’s, with her having grown up in a big city. I found we shared a burning desire to see other parts of the country and the world than the usual going to school, getting married, and settling here that most of my friends viewed as their only path and already-written-in-stone fate. We talked about where we’d go, and I just loved how she’d get excited just talking about travel.

The more I saw her, the more I really liked being with her, maybe a lot more than I liked to admit.

Ah, sounds like you’ve got a girlfriend! Bobbi commented, reading over my shoulder.

I pulled the notebook away and closed it. Mind your own business, Bobbi! She’s not my girlfriend, just a girl that’s my friend!

Really? ‘The more I see her, the more I like being with her’? Hmm, should I be planning to have her to dinner to meet Mom and Dad? And I’ve got to tell George! Oh, he’ll be so excited and wouldn’t miss it for the world!

Hey! Knock it off! and do not tell george!

Tell George what? George came walking out of the kitchen, holding a Coke.

Oh god!

Anyway, this was my life at home. Ignoring my stupid sister, yeah, I really did like being with her and maybe thinking of asking her out as just us. Like a date. Yeah. Well, just thinking of it now. What if she didn’t want to see me? What if she laughed at me and then told all her friends? I had better think on this some more.

I kept seeing her and going back and forth with asking her out in my head. This had gone on for months when suddenly she asked me, What are you doing this weekend?

Nothing…ah, maybe…, I said stupidly.

She smiled, shaking her head. Want to go to a movie?

Now, going to a movie was a major event (gave you an idea of the level of boredom around these parts). Nothing was local; you needed to be driven to and from another town, some fifteen miles away.

Yeah! Uh…who else is going?

She looked back at me. No one. Just us. My dad will drive. You can buy the popcorn.

Sure! I said, maybe a little too eagerly. Wow!

After we checked the schedule in the local paper, our plan was to see The Great Race, a comedy our parents approved of. I really wanted to see the new James Bond movie, Thunderball. I thought Kathy did, too (she liked the lead actor), but our folks all gave that a resounding no. Her dad dropped us off early, and we went into Woolworths to have a soda at the luncheonette there while we waited. When we got to the theater, we were very surprised and disappointed. They had changed the movie to a different one, The Birds. Neither of us knew anything about it, but we were there already and decided to go in anyway. It was very scary, and Kathy would grab me and bury her face into my shoulder or chest every time something bad happened on the screen. If you know the movie, that was a lot of times. Our popcorn ended up on the floor during one particular scene in a chicken coop, and she pretty much held on to me after that for the rest of the film.

After the movie, we went out to wait for her dad, but she was afraid of the birds on the telephone line and just stayed very close to me, holding my arm until I put it around her. When her dad arrived and saw this, he was not very happy and made her sit up front with him. Though after he heard what happened with the movies being switched and what we actually saw, his attitude changed and he laughed and smiled.

So you two sat through that whole movie? Kathy nodded, looking a bit sad. He looked back at me. Were you scared? I said no, but that was not entirely true. With Kathy jumping into my arms at every horrible scene (which we didn’t tell him about), I was more absorbed with holding her than what was on the screen, so I looked braver to her than I was.

He dropped me off at home and told my folks about what happened, and they all had a good laugh. Her dad added, I’d say to expect some nightmares for a few days. I read that movie is a real shocker. And they got back into the car to go home. Kathy was waving back at me and smiling.

How was your date? Bobbi asked as I was going to the room I shared with Steve.

It wasn’t a date. We just went to a movie together. But it was good, I fairly snarled back.

She likes you. I can see it. You are going to make a cute couple.

I stopped in the hall and looked up at the ceiling as George passed, going the other way, hitting me with his shoulder as he did. Saw your girl. She’s cute. If you wanna see her again, better fix my bike. But do it right this time. The chain came off again, and I had to walk it back.

It was nice that I could always count on thoughtful observation and encouragement from my brother. Better fix it, because I really did want to see her again.

Next day at school, Kathy pulled me aside and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I didn’t get a chance to say good night last night. She smiled at me. Sorry for being such a fraidy-cat. Thanks for holding me when I was scared. It made me less afraid. I had a really good time with you.

I smiled and said, Sorry about the movie, but I liked being with you too. You want to go swimming Sunday afternoon?

Sure! was her immediate response. She saw some of her classmates and said, Gotta go, but talk to you later. And she walked away, headed into the schoolyard to meet her friends, waving back to me. I watched her admiringly as she walked away, and saw she passed a bird sitting on a fence right next to her. I thought she’d get scared and was ready to run over, but she just looked at it, smiling, and walked by. Hmm, I wonder how scared she really was by that movie. I couldn’t wait for Sunday.

3

Me catch the ship across the sea.

—The Kingsmen, Louie Louie

The week went by quickly. It was already Saturday, but a very special day. Pops and Uncle Matt had been talking about this guy coming to stay here from Guyana, South America. All I knew was that his name was Morris and he was arriving by boat today, so we had to pick him up. They were already on their way over to get me to help. Couldn’t think of what help I’d be. Carry his luggage maybe?

Pops arrived in the neat and clean blue-and-white ’57 Ford F-100 pickup he used as his daily ride. The bed was full of tools and ropes, which was where I usually sat when Uncle Matt or Grandma was with him.

I looked at him. Where’s Uncle Matt, and where’s Morris going to sit?

Oh, Matt will meet us there. He’ll go directly because it just takes Bertha longer.

The truck Pops just affectionately called Bertha was this decrepit, heavy-duty old Army WC series monster. This thing was a WWII relic that Uncle Matt bought to move heavy equipment around. This beast was powerful! It could tow, push, or pull just about anything. What was left of the paint was Army green, but the truck’s finish was mainly rust. It was ugly and noisy, it stank and leaked everything, plus it was incredibly slow. And those were its good points! Uncle Matt had thrown blankets across the seat, but you still got pinched by loose springs sitting in the cab just the same.

Ugh! What do we need that thing for?

My Pops laughed and said, You’ll see.

My mom yelled to him from the porch, Dad, do not let Matt put that wreck on the concrete drive again! It took George a week to clean up all the oil stains last time!

Pops just nodded, saying nothing, as he waved back at her getting into his truck.

Pops didn’t drive fast, even though his truck had a V8 engine. He just cruised along. His truck was very comfortable and rode smoothly. It did have a radio, which Pops kept on a 1940s music station. I didn’t like his choice of music, but it was nice to listen to anything on a long ride.

Just as we saw the port entrance, I heard (and smelled) Bertha more than saw it just before we passed it on the way into the gate. I saw Uncle Matt, and that the truck was towing a large flatbed trailer.

Once inside, Pops had to contend with the harbormaster and a lot of paperwork that seemed to take forever. The harbormaster then pointed to a door on the other side of the office. This way, he said in a very official way as we walked out to an area strewn with big crates. He checked the paperwork against some numbers on one and said, Here you go, good luck, in an almost-friendly manner. I was looking at this huge crate and was very confused. Who traveled this way?

Uncle Matt rolled up, coasting Bertha to a halt to the sound of squealing brakes, but he left the engine running. As Pops broke out pry bars and hammers, Uncle Matt turned on the headlights and walked to the front of the truck to release the cable from the winch on the front bumper. I was so confused, and now my eyes were tearing from exhaust fumes. We pried open the crate, and through the yellowy lights of the truck, I could just about make out the shape of a small car. What gives?

4

Well you’re built like a car; you’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo.

—T. Rex, Bang a Gong

Uncle Matt handed me a pair of tin shears and asked that I go into the crate and first remove the packing on the sides of the car and then carefully cut the metal strapping that held the suspension down to the floor. They kept the car from rolling or moving too much inside during transit. Be careful not get your hands caught or get hit when the car jumps once the straps are cut. I walked in and could see the exhaust fumes following me in as the wind shifted and blowing them into the crate now. I got to the car, and my flashlight shone on an emblem on the point of the hood: Morris. Okay, that mystery was solved. They’d been playing with me as to who Morris really was. Being the kid, I got this a lot. I sighed and shook my head as I lay down on the floor of the crate to go about releasing the straps. I cut the first one. Yeah, I was clear and didn’t get hit by the car, but a ton of dirt fell off it on top of me. I stood up and dusted myself off, looking back at Uncle Matt standing back by the truck and smoking. Great, more fumes.

I lay on the floor again and cut the second strap, this time at arm’s length, so I didn’t get showered again. That worked (or all the crap fell off the first time). To get to the back for the last two straps, I had to climb over the roof of the car. Not a lot of room, but I was small and could squeeze over. I then realized this thing was a tiny station wagon and, as I got to the back door, that it was a woodie wagon, like the Ford a friend of George had, though about half the size. As I got over the top and was about to try to get under the car, there was this loud crash as Pops punched some holes in the wood on the back of the crate. The fresh air was welcome, because between the heat and the fumes, I thought I was going to pass out.

As I cut the last tie-down straps, Uncle Matt came in with some rope slings and tied them to the front suspension. He then attached the winch cable to those. Pops yelled at me through the holes on the crate, Yer gonna have to push from behind to get Morris moving over the stops nailed into the floor. There’re sideboards that’ll work like a track to roll him out straight. Just be careful he doesn’t roll back on ya if the cable slips.

Bertha moved back and started pulling the little car out like a kid’s toy. Once over the front stops, Morris rolled a bit and then stopped as the rear wheels hit the stops again. After Uncle Matt took up the slack in the cable, it took a bit of a push to get him over them and rolling out freely. Pops was now up front of the crate to catch Morris as he rolled forward. I ran out and stuck a piece of two-by-four in front of a wheel when he stopped rolling forward and put another behind the wheel to keep Morris from rolling backward. Uncle Matt released the cable and went to get the trailer, getting the truck and its fumes away from me.

As we got the car (and me) out into the daylight, the harbormaster came back past in a small truck and offered us some bananas. Fell off the truck, he said with a wink. Yeah, right. But I was hungry and gladly accepted the offer. Uncle Matt had a canteen in his truck, so I was able to wash out my throat with some water. Pops checked his truck and started cursing that he left the sandwiches and his canteen back home. After the bananas, I wasn’t really hungry. The fumes from Bertha and the dust and heat inside the crate made my stomach upset, and just the thought of a ham or bologna and cheese sandwich was making me sick.

A little clean air and sunlight and I was able to clear my eyes (and lungs) to look him over and get an idea of what he was like. Morris was tiny—a small white two-door station wagon with wood trim on the sides and back. Not really a true woodie wagon, where the whole outside of the wagon back and doors was totally made of wood; the doors, side panels, and rear doors of Morris were metal, but the wagon part, rear windows, and rear doors (there were actually two doors, like with a truck, not a wagon tailgate) all had wooden frames. Pops said he was called a Morris Minor Traveler. Traveler meaning he was a station wagon or, by the British name, an estate car. He was filthy, but nothing appeared missing or badly damaged; no rust or major dents that I could see.

Opening the doors, I immediately see that the steering wheel was on the wrong side.

Can we fix that? I asked Pops, who just chuckled and shook his head no.

That’s how British cars are built for their home country, because they drive on the other side of the road from us. Guyana was a British colony, so they do too. He was built that way for England, and we don’t want to change him.

I nodded, taking note that all of us had always referred to Morris like a person, as he or him and not it. I mentally agreed that this was okay and continued looking him over.

The rest of the interior was worn and dirty, but not ripped, and there wasn’t anything that looked missing or broken. The gauges were set in a single round case dead center on the dashboard with the speedometer at the middle. There was a floor-mounted shifter attached to a three-speed gearbox. Popping the hood (bonnet, as I was corrected by Uncle Matt), there was this tiny four-cylinder engine that looked like I could lift it out by myself. Dusty, greasy, and just overall dirty, it was pretty complete-looking.

Does it run? I asked Uncle Matt.

He replied, Not today, but soon.

Uncle Matt had moved the truck so that the trailer, now on the front, was right in front of Morris. Bertha was equipped with a winch only on the front that was originally used mainly to pull the truck out of mud or a ditch it was stuck in or over big rocks. There was no winch at the back. It had a trailer hitch on the back, as it would be on most trucks, but also had one on the front bumper. This was to allow more easily maneuvering the truck and a trailer into position before using the winch to pull something heavy onto the trailer. It was clever but strange to watch. Once positioned and hooked up, Morris was easily hauled onto the trailer with the winch, and we tied him down for the trip home.

Uncle Matt now hitched the trailer to the back of Bertha and started to leave. Much as I disliked how slow Bertha was, it got no slower loaded. The problem was, it got no faster either. Thirty-five to forty miles per hour was its top speed, and that was whether just having a driver on board or towing a whole house behind it.

Pops went to take care of disposing of the crate, and he figured we’d still get home before his brother, even after that.

The drive home, I was tired, dirty, and still feeling a little sick from my time in the crate. Pops left the windows all the way open and played the radio softly, which helped me rest, and I slept almost until we arrived at the barn. We got out to help Uncle Matt unload Morris to his new home. That done, we all went into the house, where Grandma saw what a mess we were and chased us out to get cleaned up first. Then she asked if I was hungry. Saying I was, I added that in all the excitement, we forgot to eat. Pops said, Good thing, ’cause I forgot the sandwiches, laughing and pointing to the bag on the counter. Grandma made a face and gave me some tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, all the while scolding the two older men, How did you leave making sure you had everything to do the job except lunch and water? And neither of you thought that stopping to take a break during the job might have been a good idea? For you two as well as Jessie! You’re not kids anymore!

Pops looked at me. You okay? I nodded. Oh, stop fussing over the boy, Ma. He’s fine!

At that, she gave him a stern look, adding, We’ll talk later, never taking her eyes off him. Uncle Matt just stood up, taking his sandwich on its plate with a beer, walked over to my grandmother to kiss her and thank her for them before making his way out the door to the porch for a smoke.

Pops patted me on the shoulder. Finish up, Jess, and I’ll take you home.

Once I was back home, all the day’s activities caught up with me, and I only briefly remember saying hi to my parents before dropping off to sleep on the couch. I think they carried me up to my bed, because I woke up the next morning, still in my clothes, unshowered and panicked that I overslept, missing going to my grandparents’ lake with Kathy.

5

What a day to be together, and what a sky of blue.

—Spanky and Our Gang, Lazy Day

Iusually rode my bike over to Pops’s, but Kathy’s father picked me up and drove us together today. Kathy looked really cute in this yellow sundress and matching-framed sunglasses. She already had her bathing suit on underneath. I was in shorts (that doubled as my bathing suit) and a T-shirt, so I wouldn’t need to change either. We had only two seasons here: hot and hotter. It was now the hotter summer season, so you generally dried off quickly after swimming, and the wet shorts helped to keep you a little cooler as they dried. It was only if you were going someplace else afterward that you’d really need to change.

That said, we got to the barn and she wanted to get out of her dress inside. I took her in, and it gave me a chance to introduce her to Morris. I’m not sure how really interested she was in him, but she spent some time looking him over and commented that he was cute and she could see herself riding in a car like him. The fact that he was truly from England and right-hand drive intrigued her and started us on a conversation about visiting that country and others. We both did share this great desire to travel, to go to different and exotic places, and more for me, to get away from this town that we sat in the car inside the barn talking so long we almost forgot about swimming!

Once in the water, we floated around on inner tubes, took the canoe out for a while, and I lazily paddled her around the lake and then came back to dive off the dock. Well, on diving, I did that. Kathy was trying to keep her hair from getting too wet and messed up. Grandma made us lunch, and we had a really good time being here, just us. When it was time to go, Kathy’s father picked her up. Kathy had something else to do later in the day with her mom. I stayed behind to get started on Morris with Pops and Uncle Matt.

This was work, but it was also just as much fun. I loved working with Pops and Matt, because I learned so much. They taught as I did my work. First thing was to clean Morris, inside and out. I started with a bucket of soap and water and scrubbed the dirt and dust off the outside of the body. In cleaning, I found some rust we hadn’t seen before and that some of the wood trim was damaged and would have to be replaced. Pops looked at it, saying he thought that odd. Uncle Matt cut a piece off with a pocketknife and examined it, saying, Termites. Pops looked at the floor and then me. More work to do. After rinsing the soap off, Pops told me to wait for Uncle Matt to finish before doing anything else. He said Matt would make more of a mess as he cleaned the engine.

Uncle Matt had been working to set up this odd sprayer he brought over that was built to clean heavy industrial equipment. It was what he used for degreasing oil rig parts or their own tools, tractors, and other equipment after a job. We used it now on Morris’s engine, transmission, and undercarriage. It first sprayed heated diesel oil and then a strong lye soap and water, all pushed with compressed air, to remove all the grit, grease, and gunk. We put a canvas tarp under the car to collect anything solid that came off, to be either retrieved (if part of the car) or thrown away. The oil and soapy water soaked away through the cloth into the dirt that was the floor of the barn. After years of tractors and heavy equipment having been serviced, stored, and repaired here, the floor had become this grease- and oil-saturated, hard-packed earth that was hard as cement and looked like asphalt—it was so dark.†

After he was done, the engine looked great, but now the whole car was covered with grease and oil spatter, so I had to start washing all over again. Once the car was clean, Pops went about cleaning the spark plugs and points and showing me how to change the distributor cap and rotor, wires, engine oil, and oil and gas filters and to install a new battery. As I said, I’d always worked with him like that, helping him as he told me what to do. He then started the engine, which easily caught and revved up quickly, but the scary, loud knocking noises that came from it said it would need more than a little attention if Morris was ever going to hit the road again.

I was hoping for better, but not unexpected, Pops said, shaking his head. It’s gonna have to come out to be rebuilt.

I was now filthy, covered in grease and oil, my hands dirty from handling tools and parts, working with Pops. I was in heaven. Though I wished we could drive him now, the thought of doing an engine rebuild and the other work on Morris was like starting an adventure to me!

---

† This was the way it was back then. Older barn-type buildings had been built without concrete or asphalt floors and the un-checked use of paint thinner, gasoline, kerosene or diesel fuel as cleaners was fairly common. Keep in mind that even most secondary roads in the county at that time were just use-compacted dirt that were often sprayed with a tar-and-gravel covering. And that tar was made from waste oil. I cringe to think what they were exposed to back then. Pops’ barn was scraped of the contaminated soil and that was replaced with a concrete floor poured sometime in the late 1970s. Matt

6

Wanna tell about my baby, Lord, you know she comes around, about five feet four, from her head to the ground.

—Them ft. Van Morrison, Gloria

The summer was going by maybe a little too fast for me. With no school, my father put me to work at the store several days a week. We all did. Ian only escaped by getting married and now working full-time with steady overtime at the machine shop as work began to come in for military contracts as the war in Vietnam was ramping up. Bobbi worked at the register, letting my mom and dad work on inventory and orders for new stuff while taking and picking delivery orders. Something new they added to what they could offer their customers. Dad liked to help the Spanish-speaking customers, both because they were often his friends and also because he could. He was almost as fluent as they were and could both understand and be understood by them, though he spoke a little slower than they did.

I worked with George and Steve at our store, moving boxes from the storeroom and filling in what sold on the selling floor shelves, as well as helping customers bring their stuff to their cars after they paid. George and Steve were old enough to drive, so they often went out to make pickups and deliveries. In between, George managed to find ways to torture me, but Steve would come to my rescue every time. Well, almost every time. Much more than his heroics, the watchful eyes of our sister more often caught and stopped George before he started anything. For all his size and strength, George was afraid of Bobbi. And she never had to lift a finger. With a look or a word, she could send him running for cover in fear of what she’d unleash on him. It was fun to watch, and while I love my sister, I knew never to get on her wrong side. Ever!

Besides work, I did get to hang out with my friends. One of my closest was Bradley Gray Jr., the son of the owner of the machine shop my brother Ian worked for. He was not terribly interested in sports as an only obsession, as many of the others were, though he did play football very well at school as a running back. Not a glamor position, like a quarterback, which gave him that top jock status, but enough that he was recognized by everyone. We hung out when we weren’t working at our parents’ businesses and often went out with girls together—most times it was me with Kathy and him with Annie Keane, a girl that he seemed to be seeing pretty steadily. All in all, not a terrible life (especially if you exclude having to work with George!) and put a few dollars in my pocket, but there was nothing exciting, just like everything else in this town.

Being at the store and in town so much gave me the opportunity to see Kathy more. Her father’s office (he worked for the bank) was across the grassy park that was the town square, and he drove with her here almost daily. We’d meet for lunch at a bench in the park. I brought sandwiches and sodas from the store, and we’d just sit and talk, making future plans about travel to new and interesting places and that we’d catch up later to do something, often with other friends or on our own, which was my preference. We spent a lot of time together, and I really liked her. I was afraid that once we’d go back to school, this would end and we’d go our separate ways and lose touch.

I can say that my fears were unfounded. In the fall and back at school, she mainly had lunch with her friends but always saw me first. I worked on Saturdays but made sure to see her in the park for lunch or a snack and then later on Sundays. She went to church and then Sunday school in the mornings. I managed to avoid that, generally meaning I had to do chores at home and/or then working on Morris at Pops.

Morris was becoming mainly my project. Not that Pops and Uncle Matt had lost interest; they just didn’t have the time. They had gotten another emergency call this time in Texas that they had packed up to go take care of. It turned out to be a much bigger problem than the customer thought, so it meant more time away. So much more that Grandma went to be with them and I was now alone at the barn while working. And there began a problem.

7

I tell you dirt gets under the fingernails and hate gets under the skin, but a dream got a way of getting down to the bone and the heart of a body that it’s in.

—Harry Chapin, Dirt Gets Under the Fingernails

Time flew, and it was August 1967 already. Besides becoming more my project, Morris had also become a bigger job than anyone thought. With the engine removed, we could see damage to the transmission as well. Both dismantled, we found they had to be sent to a machine shop for repairs before we could put any new parts in. Though Gray’s could do the work, they weren’t an automotive shop, so it meant us getting them all the parts. Those mainly came from England (or used from the guy that sold them the car in Guyana), which took even more time to identify what we needed, send out the orders for, and then wait for delivery. That was why this project had taken so long.

All the wood was found to be termite-damaged and had to be replaced. Behind the wood, we found rust. So now the metal panels had to be removed (where possible) and all repaired. The whole car would now have to be painted, which meant removing trim and prepping even the undamaged sections. And we still hadn’t really looked at the interior or the suspension yet. This had become a major project now!

There was no push or time frame for getting Morris finished, and Pops seemed to be in no rush to get him done, but I had wanted to see him ready to roll by the time I got my license. I was already sixteen, so that was to be by this past spring, which didn’t happen, so I was scrambling to have him ready before going back to school. We were still waiting for parts, so at this rate, that might never happen. As parts came in and repaired assemblies came back from the machine shop, I stepped up the pace and spent more time working on him.

Pops still did the precision stuff but had taught me enough that I was able to do the installation of the major assemblies (engine, transmission, etc.) so he could do all the fine adjustments. Literal heavy lifting. I was thinking I was becoming a pretty fair mechanic, but there was this young guy, Jorge, that started coming around who was just a natural at it. The son of one of my father’s friends, he was just a year or so younger than me. His father had heard of our Morris project and asked my dad if we could use him. He wanted to make sure he had something to do to keep him out of trouble and to help spur his interest into a skill he could get a job at. For his part, Jorge just wanted to see what we were doing and asked if he could help.

He started working with me, and it soon became apparent how much better he was at this than I was (I’d hate to tell you how much I had to do twice because I assembled something wrong or backward!). We became good friends and worked well together. Pops got to liking him and his style and worked with him on other jobs he had as well. When we worked together, we often lost track of time. And this was where I got into trouble.

As I said earlier, Sunday afternoons, in particular, I saw Kathy. This was still the case, but I’d sometimes look at the clock in the barn and see I was going to be or already was late. I’d then rush and show up all dirty, smelling of oil, solvent, and perspiration. At first, Kathy was tolerant and understanding, but that gave way to annoyance, and finally, after calling her last minute to cancel, she stopped showing up. Even if I was on time. And then she stopped seeing me at school and wouldn’t answer my calls, her mother saying she was busy, even though I knew she was standing right there.

I was totally depressed. I lost interest in Morris, leaving him to Jorge and Pops. My moods went between being generally unhappy to outright nasty. I even took a shot at George, who made the mistake of asking, What happened to your girl? Surprised him. He walked out of my room scowling and rubbing his arm where I hit him, saying, She’s pissed at ya, huh? Serves ya right! Moron.

I finally bumped into her in town, and she just stood there looking at me. I asked if she would sit in the park to talk so I could explain. She said she couldn’t. That she had to be somewhere soon but she’d talk to me here, now. I said I was sorry. I got involved in this, and I’m trying to get him ready so we can use him over this coming school year. I wasn’t ignoring you or doing it purposely. I just lost track of time… I kind of trailed off, seeing the unsympathetic look on her face.

It wasn’t just once, you know, she said. And when you did show up, you were dirty and smelly and…well, made me feel like you didn’t care that you were seeing me.

I felt that every word she said was true, even if unintentional. I had no excuses, but I tried. I came that way because I really did want to see you and not disappoint you that I was late or missed our date. It was because I rushed over. I just choked up and had to look away. I’m sorry. I promise it won’t ever happen again.

She looked at me with this sort of half-frown. Maybe, she said and started to walk away, stopped, and looked back. I’ll see you Saturday for lunch. Okay? I just nodded, with this stupid grin on my face, and watched her walk away without looking back. I was so happy. Maybe she’d forgive me and I’d have another chance.

That was Wednesday. Saturday, we had our lunch. I made sure I was clean and looked sharp. I brought a special lunch that included her favorite Ring Dings for dessert. We talked and I listened to her about what was going on in her life and then told her again how sorry I was. I went on to say that Morris was coming along and looked like a car again, so I was hopeful we would be able to go driving by the fall. She was pleasant and even gave me a kiss on the cheek as she left but made no plans to meet again.

A full week had passed. She hadn’t called or even said more than hi to me at school though was pleasant when she did. I was depressed and unhappy again. My parents saw how miserable I was. I skipped meals. I didn’t go to Pops’s at all. Not to the barn to work on Morris, not to swim or even be with my friends, though they called to ask. I was just unhappy and not good company for anyone. I had heard my parents talking about this. My father was yelling, Oh, for God’s sake, Liza, he’s sixteen! This is not the end of the world! Let him get over it and move on!

My mother calmly answered him, I’m sorry, he’s more sensitive than that. Certainly, more than you were at that age. You have no idea what I overlooked and forgave you for when we were dating! He likes her and made a mistake. He wants to fix it. I just don’t know how to tell him to do that.

I found later there was another drama going on. One that was much more serious than mine.

George, it seemed, without telling anyone, had enlisted in the Army. Having just finished his two-year college degree, he realized he had no prospect of going to a four-year school or desire to work at the machine shop so saw himself as draft bait. He decided to head it off by volunteering. Maybe score a better post by doing so. So he wasn’t just going into the Army; he requested joining the Rangers, a specially trained special operations group within the infantry, which the Army was happy to oblige. I was surprised but not shocked by what he did. He’d always talked about joining the Army (when he wasn’t threatening me).

Mom couldn’t stop crying, and Dad was just absolutely crazy about it. Okay, you don’t see working at the store as enough to keep you out, but what about Ian’s offer to work at the machine shop?

George looked at them both. I had made up my mind to do this a while ago. I’m not as smart as Steve or Bobbi or even Ian. Other than the store, I’m going nowhere. No guarantees I’d be able to do the job at Gray’s either, and besides, there is a very strong side of me that feels I should serve my country.

Dad just looked at him and, without yelling, said, You could be hurt or killed.

George nodded. I could also get hit by a truck tomorrow here. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. He paused for a second. Dad, understand I need to do this. I feel it a purpose and a direction that I don’t really have now. I had hoped you would understand.

My dad volunteered and served in the Army toward the end of WWII though never was deployed overseas. He was then recalled at the start of the Korean War and again served a tour here at various locations in the States in a support battalion capacity, but he was again never deployed overseas to combat. This still exposed him to so many different places and people that I think was where he got his more open attitude beyond the basically White Christian population of this town he grew up with. His Army friends and colleagues were of so many different races and religions and from all over the country, but they were all American as to show him how diverse this country really was and that all the stereotypes fell away. Coming home, he became more accepting, less conservative, and more of a quiet, antiwar, and civil rights supporter, while still believing in serving to defend the country. His concerns for George were beyond being as just seen by a parent. In the end he had to agree. As he said to my mother later, with sadness to his tone, He’s already enlisted. I can’t change that. And I’m not going to let what could be my last words to him be an argument and a disapproval of his life.

George left for training a few weeks later.