“Frank, are we not of the same parents, raised in the same house?” He wanted an answer so I agreed. “Our father, was he not an ardent son of the South, true to the Confederacy; and our brother, was he not also a true rebel at heart?” I concurred and he continued, “How in the world then did you end up a God damned Liberal?”
In the spring of 2009 my mother’s brother passed away, the last of his generation. My younger brother Wes and I flew to San Francisco, rented a car and drove to Turlock, out in the valley for the funeral and a long weekend with our cousin Alex and his family. That night, after the formalities and reception, we sat around Alex’s kitchen table reflecting, soaking up the glow of family bonds. His wife had retired for the night, leaving us to make ‘Man’ talk into the wee hours.
We were sipping Tennessee whiskey. Wes was on a roll, back for reloads at a pace we could not match. Alex side of the family did not have the Southern connection but he is certainly Republican and conservative. Out numbered, they had me at a disadvantage. Politics had never spoiled our appreciation for each other but even so, ’Jack Daniels’ had loosened up whatever inhibitions still remained with my brother and he wanted to have fun at my expense.
I agreed with him, yes we were and yes he was but Wes wasn’t going to let me off the hook until I either confessed to treason or pushed back. He was loving it and even though Alex wasn’t engaged, he was loving it too. After several shots of Jack Daniels, Wes was giving a performance worthy of a Tennessee Williams script, of a devious, lawyer-like inquisitor. “Do we share the same genetic profile, you and I, or do you think maybe Mom fooled around with some sorry-ass yankee and you popped out?” The grin on his face was worth the insult.
“My God man get serious,” I said, “you have a Bachelor of Science degree in Biology. You should be explaining ‘Haploidy’ to me rather than me to you.” The smug, wide eyed look on his face was familiar, I had seen it before when big fish had bent his rod tip bent down like a snow-laden tree branch and he began to reel it in. “God damn” he said, “tell me all about it.” and he drew another long sip. I skimmed over the genetics; “Sure, our genetic package came half from Mom and the other half from Dad but for you to think we both got the same two halves is an insult to your education.” I knew the biology but biology wasn’t his intent. He was shamelessly inflating his cultural bias.
“Knowing you” I said, “I bet you slept through your classes and had your wife write all your papers.” I could see clenched teeth through his tight lip smile. I didn’t wait for a reply, “We both know the biology, genetics does control early development but by the time you go off to college, peer group influence carries more weight than Mom or Dad’s DNA.” He was slow to jump in so I went on. “For all of his socially conservative bias, in the work place Dad was a progressive, liberal, union man and he would still be today. Otherwise he would have died a sharecropper and neither of us would have ever cracked a book inside a college library.”
“So what are you trying to say; he said, “spit it out.” By then, we were both chuckling: we had danced this dance before, many times. So I spit it out. “You picked a back-woods, redneck college thinking KKK was Greek for an exclusive, Southern fraternity.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “and you went to a snooty, elite school where you took foreign language and philosophy. You guys had your noses so far up in the air you would have drowned in a hard rain.” I had to say something, “That’s right and you guys were jealous because we knew how to use an umbrella.” If we hadn’t been laughing, Alex might have thought we are ready to fight. Wes set his glass down, waved his arms and shouted, “That’s why I love you man, it was you taught me how an umbrella works.” He slid around the table, grabbed me around the neck and was rubbing knuckles on top of my head. Alex thought we might break something but the rough house and mock insults were well practiced ritual.
Two years later, Alex called to apologize, he couldn’t make it to Wesley’s funeral. I thanked him, told him not to worry, he didn’t miss much. Wes didn’t get to tell any off color jokes or insult anybody. After a bone marrow transplant, he died cancer free of a hospital acquired infection. My dad was right, the curse of long life is that you lose your best friends. You can make new friends but filling the holes left by amigos you grew up with, that’s not so easy. I have no sympathy or affection for Southern tradition. Southern culture resonates with me like chocolate covered shit. It may smell good but you sure as hell don’t want to consume it. We would argue that issue but like all of our arguments, it would unfold with hugs and back slapping. I do miss him.
In the spring of 2009 my mother’s brother passed away, the last of his generation. My younger brother Wes and I flew to San Francisco, rented a car and drove to Turlock, out in the valley for the funeral and a long weekend with our cousin Alex and his family. That night, after the formalities and reception, we sat around Alex’s kitchen table reflecting, soaking up the glow of family bonds. His wife had retired for the night, leaving us to make ‘Man’ talk into the wee hours.
We were sipping Tennessee whiskey. Wes was on a roll, back for reloads at a pace we could not match. Alex side of the family did not have the Southern connection but he is certainly Republican and conservative. Out numbered, they had me at a disadvantage. Politics had never spoiled our appreciation for each other but even so, ’Jack Daniels’ had loosened up whatever inhibitions still remained with my brother and he wanted to have fun at my expense.
I agreed with him, yes we were and yes he was but Wes wasn’t going to let me off the hook until I either confessed to treason or pushed back. He was loving it and even though Alex wasn’t engaged, he was loving it too. After several shots of Jack Daniels, Wes was giving a performance worthy of a Tennessee Williams script, of a devious, lawyer-like inquisitor. “Do we share the same genetic profile, you and I, or do you think maybe Mom fooled around with some sorry-ass yankee and you popped out?” The grin on his face was worth the insult.
“My God man get serious,” I said, “you have a Bachelor of Science degree in Biology. You should be explaining ‘Haploidy’ to me rather than me to you.” The smug, wide eyed look on his face was familiar, I had seen it before when big fish had bent his rod tip bent down like a snow-laden tree branch and he began to reel it in. “God damn” he said, “tell me all about it.” and he drew another long sip. I skimmed over the genetics; “Sure, our genetic package came half from Mom and the other half from Dad but for you to think we both got the same two halves is an insult to your education.” I knew the biology but biology wasn’t his intent. He was shamelessly inflating his cultural bias.
“Knowing you” I said, “I bet you slept through your classes and had your wife write all your papers.” I could see clenched teeth through his tight lip smile. I didn’t wait for a reply, “We both know the biology, genetics does control early development but by the time you go off to college, peer group influence carries more weight than Mom or Dad’s DNA.” He was slow to jump in so I went on. “For all of his socially conservative bias, in the work place Dad was a progressive, liberal, union man and he would still be today. Otherwise he would have died a sharecropper and neither of us would have ever cracked a book inside a college library.”
“So what are you trying to say; he said, “spit it out.” By then, we were both chuckling: we had danced this dance before, many times. So I spit it out. “You picked a back-woods, redneck college thinking KKK was Greek for an exclusive, Southern fraternity.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “and you went to a snooty, elite school where you took foreign language and philosophy. You guys had your noses so far up in the air you would have drowned in a hard rain.” I had to say something, “That’s right and you guys were jealous because we knew how to use an umbrella.” If we hadn’t been laughing, Alex might have thought we are ready to fight. Wes set his glass down, waved his arms and shouted, “That’s why I love you man, it was you taught me how an umbrella works.” He slid around the table, grabbed me around the neck and was rubbing knuckles on top of my head. Alex thought we might break something but the rough house and mock insults were well practiced ritual.
Two years later, Alex called to apologize, he couldn’t make it to Wesley’s funeral. I thanked him, told him not to worry, he didn’t miss much. Wes didn’t get to tell any off color jokes or insult anybody. After a bone marrow transplant, he died cancer free of a hospital acquired infection. My dad was right, the curse of long life is that you lose your best friends. You can make new friends but filling the holes left by amigos you grew up with, that’s not so easy. I have no sympathy or affection for Southern tradition. Southern culture resonates with me like chocolate covered shit. It may smell good but you sure as hell don’t want to consume it. We would argue that issue but like all of our arguments, it would unfold with hugs and back slapping. I do miss him.
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