Those readers familiar with my scribbles will doubtless remember me mentioning my mother’s mother from time to time when my post needs a horror component, the notorious Minnie Cooper. Really and truly that was her name, Minnie Cooper. Doesn’t strike terror at first glance nor does she seem likely to run naked through the pastures disembowling sheep, goats, cattle for the sheer evil pleasure of it. However, once witnessed – particularly as an impressionable child – it left indelible visions of the vile evil that resides in the dark souls of vicious degenerates. 

I was told to refer to her as ‘granma’, that entity which produced my mother. She was a proud – and vocal – member of the KKK until she finally expired in a smudge of greasy smoke that caused root rot as far as it’s shadow was cast.

The gentleman with her was the second of her three husbands (in an era when one was considered a woman’s duty, fulfilled when she buried him). My father always described her as a man-hungry bitch. I came to think of her in less kind, if considerable more descriptive, terms. I only met Mr. Brown on one occasion. He had a haunted sense of hopelessness dragging at his steps. He died soon after – I think it was a joyful escape. 

He was quickly replaced by Titus Eferd. I got to know Titus when we lived with him and that horror show known as Minnie on a farm fifteen long dreary miles down a badly-maintained blacktop road west of a shabby little town in a depressed area in the North Carolina called the Piedmont (I’ve always thought the descriptor best translated as ‘Place Upon Which The Mountain Pissed’).  Titus took three years to die of stomach cancer.  He was a tough old bird of whom I still admire. Dying, in excruciating pain, rarely leaving his bed, he had more time for and pity on me than any of the rest of the family. 

I didn’t realize it at the time (I was 11 to 13 before the misery stopped, and I got to escape back to California) but Titus had unusual taste in books. He had a small, but incredibly broad library for a farmer and country store owner 15 miles from Buttefuckkk, North Carolina. It may not have had literature recommended by experts in child development (particularly for a child showing signs of severe mental illness – depression, anxiety, alcohol/drug use).

But among his books was “Crime and Punishment,” that happy, chatty travelogue, penned by the sunshine-and-rosebuds-and-puppy-dog-tails cockeyed optimist Dostoyevsky, through the intimate inner spaces of the hippocampus of your average Russian jokester. In fact, I identified. I understood. “Someone else gets it!” I did make sure I finished the book before my suicide attempt – I simply HAD to know how it ended. Very satisfyingly, I should add. Anyway, I obviously didn’t – but it was a bit of a near thing. 

On the other hand, if he hadn’t shared his liquid morphine – he let me lick the spoon after he dosed, and what happened after he dozed off is nobody’s business but mine – I would probably have blown my head off that afternoon in 1959. But I did take the barrel out of my mouth and my toe off the trigger, and made that long walk back to the house to put the shotgun back in its case.  

‘Maybe tomorrow’ most likely went through my mind. If it did, I’m surprised I didn’t go back and finish myself off right there and then. But, oh well, go figure. 

This is kinda important but doesn’t seem to fit in the narrative above, so I’m adding it as a sort of codicil showing what a difference a summer makes. 

Brief History: 1st grade Dallas. Poppa gets the idea there might be work around Denver (or someone gullible who he could con), so we head there, nope nada. Pull the trailer over Loveland Pass, down to Rte. 66 and turn right. California on the horizon. 2nd, 3rd & some of the 4th grade, Cohasette St. Elementary School. We lived in a trailer park where Haskell Ave. deadended at the railroad tracks. To locate it for you, the Budwiser Brewery – now the amusement park – was right over the tracks from the park. 

Then poppa’s feet itched, a friend in Oregon told him come on up, plenty of work. So, to Springfield we moved for the rest of the 4th. I was 10, did well in school, and we must have had some money because I learn to ride a horse. I also learned to drive a vehicle, and not just to drive, I learned to drive a Willis 4-wheel-drive Jeep truck. 

We lived out in the boonies, no sewer (septic), water from a well (pump), no garbage pickup (dump). Poppa would load the garbage cans in the truck, and next day after the school bus dropped me off, I’d add any additional debris, make sure the blocks were tight on the pedals (I was still a runt and my feet didn’t reach all the way), put that suckka in gear and two miles to the dump I’d drive. Once there, I’d wrestle the cans over and try to hang on. Otherwise, I’d have to slide down to the bottom and drag it back up. Trust me, you only wanna do that once. Then, drive back home. Looking back, I guess it was kinda cool, but at the time it was just another chore. 

Anybody else have those? Things you were expected to do not for money but because you were part of ‘the family’ and everyone earned their keep. My parents put a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and basic clothes on my back. In exchange, I took out the garbage, did the dishes, helped with the cooking, then later with vacuuming, dusting, basic housework. If I wanted more, that’s what jobs are for. 

Back when we lived in the trailer in Van Nuys, two miles up a dirt road that ran beside the park was a chicken ranch. To make pocket money for myself (I was 7 and 8), I’d go around to the trailers to take orders from the housewives, pull my wagon up the road, get however many dozen eggs, and drag ‘em back. I was probably making a nickel a dozen, undercutting the stores. This came to maybe 50 to 75 cents a week, not bad for a 7-year-old in 1955. 

Mother ‘held’ my money until I opened a saving account. I musta gotten some of the loot because the first thing I bought was a little red plastic suitcase. We moved so often it made sense to me to have my own luggage. I remember I had copies of “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey” (Chapman trans.) and they fit along with a couple of toys, candy bar, etc. 

I did that for a couple of years until we moved to Oregon. The weather was depressing, but I liked Oregon. And the kids in my class was friendly, so I was happy. Impending doom was breathing down my neck but the school year ended – and, boom, doom. 

I had planned to go see “Johnny Tremain” with a friend from odown the street. Instead, my father woke me up about 4:30, “Get dressed. We’re going to go visit grandma. “ “Grandma lives in North Carolina.” “Yeah, get dressed, car is packed, your mother’s fixing you a peanut butter sandwich.” “But . . . “ “Shut the f. up and get your damn clothes on.” So I did, we got on the road ‘bout dawn, headed east, hit the Cascades, mountain roads, switchbacks, and upchuckking began in the backseat – me into a doubled paper bag. 

Again, no interstate. Each state kept to itself. You could tell when you crossed a line from a rich state (Texas) into a poor state (Arkansas). Then there were the signs, arrows pointing this way for Co.Rte32 S – right; St. Rte. 5 – left. Multiply this by everything more elaborate than a cow path. More fun ensued trying to read the damn things at night. 

Then there were the paper maps. Those of a certain age may excuse themselves. The rest of you circle up. A little lecture on how your elders navigated the world before “Turn left in 100 yards. Recalculating.”

There were display boxes designed to fit on the counters of gas stations and all they did was hold maps. Folded, they were 10” to 12” inches by 2” to 3” inches wide; unfolded, usually around 36” by 36.” Refolded, well, suffice it to say, they were never refolded into the tidy original shape. Best description for an attempt to refold – a hot mess. 

The maps were by state, region, county. Find the legend or suffer the consequences. What is an inch on the map could be 10 miles or 50, depending on the legend. 

At this time, 

And buckety-buckety across the country we drove. With the grandmother from Hell our destination.