Family Ties

Three poems

Maw-Maw and me

My Great Grand I called Maw-maw, was a feisty little 4’10” gal about which it was told that she kept her 3 boys in line with a buggy whip and her 4 girls with just a look. The family lived in mining camps and several of her babies were lost during birth or shortly after. She was the midwife and “healer” for the camp but by the time she lived with us, I was around 4 years old. She had mellowed and allowed no one to lay a hand on me, for which I am eternally grateful. In a home of wild-ass German Irish mixes that could turn on a dime sending food flying across the dinner table and who defined quality time as screaming chases round and round the house, I enjoyed a period of relative safety while she was around. I miss them all but mostly her. Grandma (Mam) appeared in “Escape from the Garden” and “Cherry Breath Mints”.  Besides Maw-maw, I especially miss Aunt Vi who indulged and encouraged my imagination - “The Difference Between” below.

A quick story about Uncle Basil: Once when I was a kid as he sat whittling, I thought I would get a rise out of him (he mostly ignored me) by darting in and out and tapping him on the back. He shot me a few warning looks, but I was not intimidated and continued my torment. I had always noticed he limped, and I supposed “peg-leg” meant some kind of stiffness or injury - I didn’t realize it was wood from the hip down. As I continued my childish game, all at once with a wolf-like snarl, he plunged his whittling knife into his peg-leg, through the blue jeans he always wore that covered his primitive prosthesis and glared at me. It was terrifying. I never tormented him again…still wish I could have gotten to know that guy, bet he had some good stories. All the great uncles were missing a finger or two - in fact, I remember the first time I saw an adult male with all ten nicely manicured digits…I was amazed and a bit skeptical whether such a man could be trusted.

---

Jenny (Fox) McCarty, my great grandma, Maw-Maw

Rocking

Great Grandma was a little Irish woman
Who often rocked close as she could to the old coal stove.
Patiently she awaited her chance to sneak away and dance a jig 
On ice-covered puddles to show bossy daughters
She hadn't always rocked close to an old coal stove.

Missing

Great Uncle Basil had an old peg leg.
He was missing some fingers too.

He worked in the mines when he was young -
They say he liked to fight and drink.

I couldn’t ever tell if he liked me,
He carried a look that kept me back.

I never knew what he thought when I came to visit, 
He just sat drinking, chewing tobacco, spitting, and whittling.

People treated him careful though I never once saw him fight,
But in all the years I knew him, I always saw him drunk.

The Difference Between

Not everyone has an aunt Vi, but they should.
Most everyone has an Aunt Dot.
I can’t say whether they should or shouldn’t – 
They just do.

The difference is wild red feather boas,
Black stiletto heels,
Sequined blouses like broken mirrors – shiny with an edge.
Dresses smooth as wet saran wrap.

Hours of putting on make-up for make-believe shows 
Old scratchy records with Vaudeville songs long forgotten.
Me singing and dancing while Aunt Vi clapped,
And laughed out tears and sometimes pee.

As for Aunt Dot, well, she didn’t have any of those things,
But if she did, I wouldn’t be allowed to touch them.
And when she laughed, which was not very often,
Nothing came out at all, not even a sound.

Great Aunt Vi, Great Uncle Earl and my mother