At some point, back in the early 60s, my father blew into Seagoville, TX, with his two near adult sons. Perhaps he was still married to his first wife. He isn’t around to ask, nor is she, nor is wife number two, my mother. Wife 3 died decades ago. I am not sure about wife 4 as we lost touch along the way. Lesson one, never assume the stories will last longer than the people who made them. I couldn’t have fathomed I would be sitting here in my mid-50s struggling to tell a tale with no one in my back pocket to edit what my own feeble mind recalls. I am not sure why my father did not settle in Wilmer or Palmer or Ferris, where his parents and 3 siblings lived. He chose the Ville. Soon, Daddy and Uncle Spider (aside: I also had an Uncle Goat, though from my mother’s clan) bought a building and opened a washateria. Uncle Spider did not enjoy the laundry entrepreneur life and bowed out shortly thereafter. Daddy hired my mother’s aunt to manage his business, met her very young, very tall, strawberry blonde niece, and promptly set up house with her in a single wide mobile home on a 3-acre tract of land in a then unincorporated area of SE Dallas County. We were a no man’s land bereft of things like city water or trash pickup. Electricity had to be purchased from the next county over. The family who sold him the property was a big deal in those parts. I didn’t understand fully, until I needed to memorize my address for school purposes. Daddy bought the parcel from the matriarch of that family. She was Charlie Ballard’s mother, though I only knew her as Granny Ballard. Charlie was Seagoville’s towing king and one of my father’s dearest friends. We lived on Ballard Road.
My first memory of Granny Ballard happened on a nondescript summer day. I could not have been more than 4 or 5 years old. She always wore a headscarf, a house dress, knee high stockings, and an apron. I sensed alarm in my mother’s voice. “Ted, Ted, come outside. Granny Ballard is on her way over. I need you to go see what she wants.” Things we do not understand often frighten us. It is uncanny how at unease this elderly woman with some form of dementia made my mother, considering my mother eventually succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Granny lived just across the street from our house. No longer single wide dwellers, my father had purchased an old church in the Pleasant Grove area and had it moved in front of the trailer. Granny approacheth. There we stood, an odd little trio, my parents and I. Granny was talking about preserves and biscuits and an array of other things. As she turned to leave, she grabbed my hand. “Come on along, Charlie. We can’t bother these people anymore today. You need to get home and get after your chores afore I take a switch to you.” I think my knees buckled. I was painfully shy and scared of my own voice. My father took over the conversation as, simultaneously, his arm reached over my mother’s body to hold her in place. “Granny, you go on and take Charlie home. I’ll be over in just a minute to sample those preserves.” Daddy winked at me. Suddenly, I was part of the game, an impersonator of her son from a half century ago. I hadn’t learned to wink yet, but I hopped into the banter effortlessly. I said something about an eagerness to finish those chores and looked behind our shadows several times to make sure my father was following. There were no preserves or biscuits, though we were often presented with an array of dough like substances made from lilac scented talcum powder. I was warned to never eat anything Granny gave me. I was also warned that my father would take his own switch to me if he ever caught me being disrespectful to her.
I can’t recall when Granny died. First came a caretaker couple who lived in their own single wide trailer just behind the old Ballard farmhouse. Tuck and Ruby were sweethearts. Tuck, a suntanned wisp of a man who smelled of chewing tobacco & gasoline, did all the maintenance and farmhand work, everything from home repairs to landscaping to livestock tending. Ruby, a joyful plump woman with prominent chin whiskers and thick glasses, tended to Granny, the garden, and the chickens. Though I never stopped to consider how these two neighbors would shape my life, I currently have a dog named Tuck and once had a gorgeous Chow Chow named Ruby. I would beg to be allowed to cross the street alone to go and see them. Ruby always had an opened package of sandies, the little shortbread cookies she was fond of. Tuck liked me to bring my violin with me and play for hours. I learned Sally Goodin and The Orange Blossom Special just for him. They had chihuahuas and their trailer was surrounded by trumpet vines and honeysuckle. Sometimes, the Ballard granddaughters, much older than me, would come to saddle up their Shetland pony. Occasionally, I would be asked to join them as they took turns leading me bareback on a horse through a pasture full of mustard weed. We would stop by a pond to let that pony drink. I can almost remember his name. Jan would tell stories and Julie would braid flowers into my long hair. “Are you going to Tuck and Ruby’s house later?” I asked one afternoon. “Who?” They both looked at me with knitted eyebrows. They didn’t know the caretaker’s names. I don’t remember Tuck and Ruby leaving. I just know that one day they weren’t there. Granny’s house fell into shambles. It no longer stands. My own childhood home looks awful nowadays. I try never to drive by there. For a while, though, it was a magical place ruled by a sweet old queen, her royal butler, and a cherubic little lady in waiting.
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