The Stump's On Fire and I'm Naked
Global Author's Publications.
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Never before has such a powerful and touching book been written on one person’s quest for emotional survival. Beginning in a hopeless environment of a sharecropper’s grasp, the author takes you on a true to life journey that you will never forget.

Sometimes humorous, always intriguing the book will command your attention beginning in the eyes of a five year old in the 1940’s. At age five the author witnessed a strange procession of apparitions that would dramatically impact his life forever with a haunting mystery. This encounter held the key to emotional salvation but took many years to unravel

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Read an Excerpt from The Stump's On Fire and I'm Naked

Chapter 1

Dusk, unusually quiet, the sky awaiting its carpet of stars. Below, a thicket of pines began its fade into tall shadows. Then suddenly an eerie sight moved toward the trees. Ghostly forms. Floating. Then the forms disappeared, vanishing into the thicket.

In those few moments the seeds of destiny, not only eventually changing my life dramatically, but rescuing thousands of others, like myself, wallowing in the wrong Universe.

I was only five years old, minutes before, in our dilapidated shack, waiting with Mama and my three sisters—Ruby Lee and Inez, older than me, and Marilyn, younger—for Daddy and my older brother, Red, to return, off helping to sell our landlord’s crop recently harvested. Suddenly, all five of our hunting dogs outside began barking, quickly working to loud, ferocious growls. Then just as suddenly their growls switched to unnatural howling, that peculiar whine, primitive chilling sounds of retreat. Soon every dog in the neighborhood joined in the barking frenzy.

Ruby Lee cocked a brow, blanching grim. “Oh, my God!” she shuddered. “What’s happenin’?!”

Inez’s face was just as ashen with fright, and the two sisters rapidly became unnerved, heaving their heads and shoulders, shouting, waving their arms wildly.

“Lord have mercy, ya girls!” Mama scolded, frowning impressively. “No sense in such fit. That racket is probably over nothin’.” But a certain reedy timber in her voice betrayed her uneasiness.

Still frowning, Mama scrambled for the door, my sisters and me right behind her, the five of us rushing jerkily out onto the porch, greeted by a strange chill in the air and a sight curling our spines.

A long string of vivid ghost-like figures, hands joined, dreamy in appearance and movement, were floating quietly a few feet off the ground at the edge of a peanut field across the road in front of our shack. Though we could see them clearly, the figures appeared both to be there and not to be there, as if functioning in two planes at once, showing visible from another dimension. Their shapes kept changing back and forth from an irregular mass to surrealistic cloud-like forms, suggesting pulsation, varying from dull grayish-white to luminous transparency.

It was an eerie sight, with no reference to experience, eliciting chaos among those on the porch. The wide-eyed stares of Ruby Lee and Inez disintegrated into screaming, raspy disembodied screams rivaling the barking of the dogs. Mama uncorked right along with them, and their fright became little Marilyn’s fright. I was the only one on the porch remaining quiet, motionless, not making a sound, caught up in some calm of vibrations obscuring my eyes with a filmy gaze.

I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t feel threatened. Whatever the ghost-like figures were, to me they seemed empathetic. I knew they meant me no harm. Then for an instant my mind seemed to become ageless, boundless, sensing oddly that the appearance of the apparitions was for my benefit. An effort to communicate in some subliminal manner, unciphered and unidentified. But I could make out no message, feeling only that there was one.

Mesmerized, I watched as the last ghost-like image in the chain disappeared, overcome with a cryptic sensing as I did so. A sensing momentarily uplifting. Something about the future. The unveiling of a secret. A mystery to be revealed. Then the sensing vanished along with the apparitions.

From the glow of his lighted cigarette we spotted Daddy approaching the shack; and as he drew nearer we all scampered out to the road. Mama, Ruby Lee and Inez swarmed around Daddy and Red with obvious discomposure, the three of them, almost incoherently, attempting to inform them of what had occurred.

Neither Daddy nor Red believed a word of their ghost story, laughing at it with resonant amusement.

“Yer all crazy!” Daddy exclaimed, his tongue deftly flipping his cigarette across his mouth in a wad of spit. “Seein’ things. Sure, somethin’ spooked them dogs, but it was probably a bobcat. Now jest calm down.”

Mama eyed him with a hard look of dreamy terror floating through her inside out, all the way from the bone. “No blame bobcat is gonna scare them dogs like that!” she snapped. “I know what I seen!”

As much as Mama, Ruby Lee and Inez insisted upon the truth of the ghost story, no one believed them and after awhile they no longer discussed it. As for me, I never mentioned the ghosts from the beginning, though puzzled as to why Mama and my sisters had been so frightened by the apparitions. Why hadn’t they sensed what I sensed?

And what I sensed later came true. There was to be an unveiling of a secret. A mystery revealed. Something I had to share. But this secret, this mystery, would come only after I was ready to receive it. The right time. The right place. The right apparition. I was to see those ghost-like figures again, the second encounter prompting the writing of this book.

In 1984, almost three years before that encounter, I was sitting at my desk, ostensibly a successful executive in Atlanta, highly paid, highly respected by those in the organization employing me, charged with the demanding responsibility for implementing special computer software accounts nationwide. All at once my life up to that point caved in on me. My feet suddenly became cold and numb. My body stiffened. My shoulders knotted. My face became a grimace of stone. Then my ears buzzed with a frightening roar. I was stunned, disoriented, debilitated, the room spiraling, a pain of darkness engulfing me, terrorizing me, slumping me in the helplessness of my own finality. I was convinced I was suffering some fatal attack.

They say when you’re dying your life flashes before you. Mine didn’t flash. It crept by slowly. An emotional stocktaking. Agonizing gulps of memory.

My first remembrance was more of a conclusion; a summary of memories: all I ever wanted was just to be normal. A normal kid. A normal adult. A normal life. But from the moment I was born that wasn’t to be, that moment around 11 o’clock on a cold and rainy night, February 5, 1944, the place a sharecropping shack in the sticks of southern Alabama, 20 miles northeast of Troy. I was delivered by my Grandma Oakes. Following the death of Grandpa Oakes—he died in agony after being kicked by a belligerent mule—Grandma Oakes, to keep herself busy, took up midwifing and busy she remained delivering hundreds of babies in south Alabama, not too few of them now either impoverished paupers, drunks, uneducated dolts, perverted misfits or flirting with the funny farm. Or murdered. Or dead at their own hands.

Such were my likely prospects coming into this world. A world of trauma. Ravaging trauma. Psychologically, trauma takes many forms, the most acclaimed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—war, famine, pestilence and death. My four horsemen were privation, depravity, turmoil and torment. And there was no waiting for them. Like vultures pursuing a sure carcass they were hovering around at birth, ready to pounce and consume, the inevitability of being born into the rock bottom, austere, ne’re-do-well setting of the sharecropping lot.

My two brothers and three sisters shared this legacy with me but never displayed the revulsion to it that I would. Apparently Mama and Daddy preferred their babies in groups of two. My brother J.P.—that’s all he was ever called, J.P., I suspect after my paternal grandpa, James Phillip Oakes—was born first, followed two years later by my sister, Ruby Lee. After another three years my brother, Red, was born, followed a year later by the birth of my sister, Inez. Then there was an interval of nine years before I popped into the world, and two years later my sister, Marilyn, slid through, mercifully bringing an end to this untidy progeny.

My parents, Joseph and Anna Oakes, certainly were no love story. Some kind of bond existed between them but it was too primordial to grasp, possibly having something to do with the caveman mentality for survival. I don’t think my parents knew what love for one another was all about. Nor did they have time to find out, too preoccupied with the pressing tasks of enduring a mean existence.

Both of my parents—my father I always called Daddy, my mother, Mama—were born in Alabama, and if ever there was an odd couple they were it. He was 20 and she 14 when they married, and it didn’t take long for whatever affection existed between them to sour on the vine, replaced by animosity and ill-feelings, particularly on Mama’s part. The two no more belonged together than did a rattler and a bobcat and I often wondered how they ever met and became man and wife. My best guess is that they eyed one another in some honky-tonk place, smiled bewitchingly at one another long enough to start their hormones gushing, and Mama became pregnant with J.P.

Unlike Mama—totally predictable, Daddy was a paradox. Though in many ways he epitomized the essence of the sharecropper’s legacy, completely captured by its unyielding setting, in other ways he was impervious to it, unaffected, living as if he harbored some secret enabling him to look upon those who took life with any weighty import as silly fools.

In keeping with the rock bottom aspect of the legacy, Daddy never attended school. He couldn’t read or write, making his signature with an X. A sharecropper by trade, a moonshiner by necessity, sometimes working in a sawmill during the sharecropping off-season—October through March, daddy wasn’t much on motivation. Not caring for material things, he had no need to be enterprising acquiring them. But when it came to common sense he had few peers, empowering him to deal easily with people while being highly regarded in return.

A good-looking man, slim, six-two, 190 lbs., square jaw, square chin, long pleasant weathered face, Daddy was easygoing and friendly, liking his fun. He was also an alcoholic, but a happy drunk, more the impresario when he was drinking, better natured, his face creased with a smile, or beaming gigglishly, ready to joke, ever the prankster, ever seeking out jollity wherever he could find it. For Daddy, enjoying life was never to take it seriously. He never became upset by things. He never worried, even when things were tumbling down about him. He simply took his woes in stride, smiling and laughing them away with another swig of moonshine.

This waggish disregard carried over to his dress. Daddy’s trademark was overalls. That’s all I ever saw him wear—old worn-out faded overalls, full of holes, never buttoned down the sides, a faded shirt tucked inside of them. He never wore socks, and his shoes—old hightop brogans, were as worn out as his clothes, holes in the ends and sides of them, his sockless big toes sticking out, revealing the corns and calluses on his feet. If he had ever dressed up he would have looked impressively debonair, but he never did so, not even when he journeyed into town to a dance.

And his appearance wasn’t helped by his tobacco habit. Incessantly, he smoked roll-your-own Prince Albert cigarettes, slobbering spit each time he smoked that was absorbed into the mouth end of the cigarette, a nasty, disgusting sight. And while smoking he continually switched the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue, at the same time reaching his hand down to his crotch, fiddling with a bad hernia rupture, uncomfortable and bothersome, constantly keeping him toying down there to keep his rupture in place, caring not who saw him.

Unpretentious, caring for little more than his fun, his moonshine, his drinking buddies and a roof over his head when he needed it, Daddy was the happiest member of the family.

With the exception of myself, Mama was the unhappiest, opposite in disposition from Daddy and as pretentious as they come, maintaining a prim facade around those outside the family. Naturally nervous and fearful, she was superstitious, domineering, overly protective and cautious, keeping herself uptight, and she took everything much too seriously, seemingly suffering every breath she took when isolated with family members. But it was the intensity in which these states possessed her that best characterizes Mama. Most people strive for the best in life but she had a compulsion for the worst.

With memorable exceptions, I seldom saw Mama smile or laugh. Whether real, imagined or the unreasonable product of her fears, Mama was too prone to worry, too prone to frustration, too negatively over reactive to everything, too engrained with the misery of her lot, too engrossed with magnifying events of horror, to smile or laugh with her family, or to be happy around them. And being unhappy she made certain everyone else was unhappy by keeping the household in a constant uproar.

An eye-catching woman when she was younger, Mama was tall, five-nine, 125 lbs., a high energy person with beautiful cascading long black hair, her face smooth complected, set off by emerald eyes and fluttering lashes when she wanted them to flutter. Having a third grade education she could manage simple reading and writing, and unlike Daddy she attempted to dress herself neatly, though her attire was limited mostly to a shirt with jeans or khaki pants. But on her visits to town she’d spruce up her appearance by wearing a simple flower patterned dress.

Mama’s lot was a hard one. She worked like a slave. Not only in the hot sharecropping fields chopping and picking cotton along with Daddy, Red, Ruby Lee and Inez, or picking peanuts or corn, but also taking care of her wifely duties at home, including tending our vegetable garden and hours of canning for our winter consumption.

She had the stamina of a bull. Rising every morning before daylight, Mama built a fire in the stove, then prepared breakfast. Following this early meal she washed the dishes, then scurried off to the field with everyone else. There Mama worked as hard as anyone until 11 o’clock, then hastened back to the shack, gathered wood, built a fire and cooked lunch. After the family ate, she again washed dishes, then scooted back to the field with the working members of the family, laboring there until sundown. Then back to the shack, build another fire, cook supper, eat, wash dishes, bring on an uproar within the family, sleep a little, then start all over the next morning, managing through all of this to wash clothes using an old black pot and scrub board, carrying the water herself from a distant spring, all the while exacerbating the problem of varicose veins in her left leg.

By the time I was five years old, the family had moved into what I refer to as Shack 1. The period of my childhood from the ages of five through seventeen is most easily chronicled by the sharecropper shacks we lived in, seventeen in all, located in Bullock and Pike Counties in south Alabama, Shack 1 through Shack 17, all of them located within a six mile radius of one another. With the exception of one, all of these shacks were almost identical, right out of the set for THE GRAPES OF WRATH: small, old rundown houses, poorly constructed out of pine lumber, a dilapidated porch in front, the outside finish having that sickly, weather-beaten gray color look. Inside, there were three cramped rooms—a kitchen, one room serving as a living room and bedroom and a third room used just as a bedroom. All of we kids slept in one bedroom, in two separate beds, Red and I in one, Marilyn and Inez in the other after Ruby Lee was married and gone.

Each shack was no more than a flimsy roof over our heads, a skimpy roof, a sheet of rusty tin that leaked. The walls and floors inside were distinguished by large, wide cracks that Mama plugged up with rags. The windows were often broken and had to be plugged up by rags as well. The shacks were heated by shabby-looking fireplaces, and smoke not only came out of the top of the chimney but also billowed out of its sides. There was no plumbing or air conditioning in any of the shacks and most of them had no electricity. We used kerosene lamps to light the darkness—it wasn’t until I was thirteen that we moved into a shack with electricity. Water had to be carried in from either open springs or from a neighbor’s house—or, if we were fortunate, a nearby well. There was no insulation, so it was miserably hot in the summer and extremely cold in the winter. The floors would creak when you walked on them, and animals were always living underneath, usually dogs and chickens, sometimes pigs.

We never had a telephone. Our bathrooms were outhouses and we used corn cobbs to wipe ourselves. As an outhouse filled up with urine and feces the stench became unbearable, so when this happened, if it wasn’t raining, we hightailed it to the woods to relieve ourselves, or to the nearest cotton or corn patch.

Summer evenings in the shacks offered at least the comfort of cool breezes. But winters offered no relief, day or night, the air so bitingly cold that it stung through you with shivering pain, freezing the water in our kitchen wash pan and bucket to the hardness of brick. Mama put linoleum rugs on the floors to keep the frigid draft out, helping some, but not enough to keep us from feeling like polar bears on Artic ice skinned of our fur. The only thing that saved us in the winter was the thick, heavy quilts Mama made, and we needed no prompting to crawl shivering under them for precious warmth.

And at times in the winter all we had to eat was “lardy gravy,” made by melting hog lard in a skillet, adding flour and cooking to a brownish texture, then adding water—when it wasn’t frozen, causing a loud searing noise to form the gravy. The gravy, along with the biscuits, would be the total of our meal. But during the warmer months we had fresh vegetables grown in our garden, and at certain times of the year we had fresh hog meat from the hogs we raised and slaughtered. We experienced stretches of little food, and what there was wasn’t nutritious. But at better times we’d eat fish that we caught and small game from hunting. On varied occasions we had chicken and eggs to eat from the chickens we raised. Sometimes we ate fried mackerel from a can made into patties, and salt fish—a mullet that’s been cured and packed in salt.

We seldom went to the grocery store, then only to buy cornmeal, flour, sugar and salt. Now and then we had a cow to provide us milk and when we did we made our own butter. When we were without butter or eggs we’d visit our neighbors—other sharecroppers or landowners—and buy these foods from them rather cheaply.

Our family income from sharecropping, moonshining, off-and-on work at the sawmill and an occasional sale of livestock was under five hundred dollars a year, thus we never owned much of anything—mostly just old worthless furniture, a few simple clothes, a mule, an occasional cow, some chickens and a few pieces of worn-out farming equipment. Nor did we ever own an automobile. Daddy had no desire for one, quite contented with his mule and simple one-horse wooden wagon to get him around in.

By the time we had moved into Shack 1, my oldest brother, J. P., had flown the coop, and my oldest sister, Ruby Lee, 19, was champing at the bit to follow suit. Five-ten, 120 lbs., pretty face, pug nose, shapely and big bosomed, Ruby Lee took after Mama. Outgoing, flirtatious and lively, she was juicy ripe and ready for plucking. And the plucking was near.

Inez, 13 was less attractive, and less shapely. Five-seven, light complected, rather skinny, her hair was long and strikingly red, and her face was plastered with deep red freckles, a warning of her spunk.

Red, the middle son between J.P. and me, was 15 at Shack 1. A stocky, muscular five-six, light complected with red hair and freckles like Inez, only the freckles not as pronounced, his hair always slicked back from a good-looking oval face, Red was as strong as an ox and worked like one. As with Daddy he didn’t take things seriously but was without Daddy’s hilarious disposition, viewing life instead from aloof indifference. You never knew what was going on in Red’s mind, but even at five I could see that Red was a lonely and troubled person, as I was becoming, only he dealt with it differently. Having dropped out of school in the third grade, Red, like Daddy, couldn’t read a lick.

Marilyn was only three, little more than a wisp of meat and bone, as yet not too cute with her straight brown hair and flat nose, but a healthy frisky kid who, as she budded with age, would fight with me tooth and nail.

Along with Mama, all the kids, when they became old enough, worked with Daddy in the sharecropping fields. Daddy insisted upon it. Needing them as field hands, Daddy never encouraged his children to go to school—in fact, he dissuaded them from doing so. And they didn’t go to school, not for long anyway. With the exception of Marilyn, who managed to go as far as the eighth grade, my other brothers and sisters never survived beyond the fourth. That suited them, fine, precluding any Nobel Prize winners in the family.

My agonizing, slowly creeping memories before the age of five were rather fragmented and unclear, consisting more of feelings and images than of events and incidents. And what I remember most of those feelings were that they were already in a flux of turmoil, confusion, uncertainty and insecurity, enough to suggest to me that it was no great favor being given life.

The only positive memory I have before five was the first time I caught a fish. I was at a lake, accompanied there by Daddy and a man name Hubert Singleton. While they were perched on a hill in back of me, talking and drinking moonshine, I waded knee deep out in the water, fishing with an old cane pole. While doing so I became caught up in the isolated beauty of the surroundings, distracting my attention to gaze at the wonder of the scenery and to watch the birds swoop. When I glanced at my pole again it was heading at an angle out into the lake in tugging, jerky movements.

“Daddy . . . Daddy my pole’s moving! I got a fish! Come help me!”

“Hot a mighty!” Daddy grinned. “You sure got one on there. Reach out and git it.”

“I can’t. It’s over my head!”

“If yer gonna fish, ya gotta catch ‘em yerself.”

As sensitive as I was, I took this as a threat: if I didn’t get this fish on my own, Daddy wouldn’t take me fishing again, this fear becoming greater than my fear of the water. Immediately I scampered awkwardly into the deeper water after the jerking pole, and soon the water’s resistance slowed me to tip-toeing. Before I knew it the water was up to my neck and I was jerking my head back, my chin barely above the water, at times my mouth gulping water. Finally I was close enough to the pole to make a desperate grab for it. Success. With my hand clutching the pole I pulled it back to shore. Hooked on the end of the line was a tiny, flouncing fish glowing in the sun, barely bigger than a quarter. Soaking wet, smiling proudly, I held the fish up for Daddy and Hubert to see. They both burst into laughter.

“Hardly worth drownin’ over,” Hubert bellowed.

Sensitive as I was, vulnerable and fragilely pliable, Hubert was to be one of the major torments beginning my road toward emotional destruction.

A well-heeled carpenter, married, Hubert Singleton was a skinny man of six foot and as sneaky as a weasel. With a pointed face and pointed nose, he even looked like a weasel, a weasel wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He wasn’t a close friend of Daddy’s—though Daddy got along with him, as Daddy got along with everybody. But Hubert was very close to Mama. He was her lover.

Mama and Hubert were lovers since I can remember, a relationship of unending anguish for me. Startling are my memories of being hauled around in the back seat of Hubert’s car, he and Mama up front, Marilyn and me in back. Mama’s captive, I felt mighty uneasy about these rides. I’d sit up in the back seat, lean forward, then study Mama and Hubert in the front seat with confusing alarm. He was always fingering one hand over Mama’s legs as he was driving, she giggling girlishly and fluttering her lashes in return. The instant she became aware that I was watching, Mama gawked at me with a frowning grunt and abruptly pushed Hubert’s hand away. Then she skittishly straightened herself up, assuming a sedate expression of propriety.

But too late. I’d seen enough. Enough to become angered at Hubert for doing something to Mama that wasn’t proper, and becoming infuriated at Mama for being a part of it, for permitting it to happen, though confused as to what was happening but unable to dismiss that is was some sort of abomination.

But I could do nothing, say nothing, overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness, though inside my anger was not helpless in tearing me apart. Quickly I repelled a retaliatory urge to tell Daddy. The strain between he and Mama needed no more added to it. A hefty portion of this strain was Mama’s furious contention with Daddy over his drinking, producing never ending, drawn-out verbal battles between the two of them which we kids were forced to witness with shattering impact. Moreover, she held Daddy responsible for turning Red into an alcoholic.

When Red was about twelve years old, Daddy took him to his moonshine still and, as a joke, an amusement, gave him a drink of moonshine. It was like introducing a duck to water. Red developed a taste for the “stuff”—Mama’s term for moonshine, falling in love with it, a gift of good feeling in the midst of poverty and hardship, and he kept on drinking it, and drinking and drinking, until at times he began acting like some loon with his brain fried out on hash, making him a frequent object of Mama’s yelling and wrath.

She hated liquor, especially when Daddy and Red drank it. Never touching a drop herself, her choice of escape from her miserable, lonely, bleak life was clandestine sexual affairs, primarily with Hubert. And I feared that if Daddy found out about he and Mama something dreadful would happen. He’d hurt Mama. Or break up the family. Or there’d be some other awful outcome. So I kept their abomination to myself, at the price of warping my emotions. This secret about Mama and Hubert strangulated me night and day, producing such immense guilt and shame that I couldn’t look at Daddy in the eyes. Always I was fearful he’d read my secret. Then Armageddon.

This fear became a horror, terrorizing me, keeping me tense, tight, on edge. Adding to this sufferance was my escalating fury with Mama for continuing to see Hubert; continuing to shanghai Marilyn and me and hauling us around in the back seat of his car; continuing to giggle as he ran his hand over her legs—and elsewhere. She never giggled like that with Daddy. And I never saw Daddy run his hand over Mama’s legs.

I knew nothing about the fidelity binding husband and wife. Yet I knew Mama was violating some trust to Daddy. Outwardly my fury was silent. I had no choice. Inwardly, it was devastating. I had no conscious escape from it. There was no one I dared speak to about it, even if I knew how, the harbinger for keeping all stressful feelings and emotions tightly contained within myself, not daring to let them out.

I was hapless, helpless, having nowhere to go with the torment of my guilt, shame, fear, anger and fright save to keep it within myself, letting it continue its silent warping process until my agonizing could no longer be contained, bursting out in the inevitable physical disorders of psychosomatic disaster, symptoms masking psychological trauma that would deepen into an even more insidious and self-destructive unconscious life operating outside of my awareness.

The first of these symptoms pounced on me shortly before I turned five. Mama and Daddy sometimes socialized with Hubert—Mama and Hubert arranging for these threesome get-togethers, without Hubert’s wife. On one such infrequent occasion, Mama and Daddy, along with Hubert, attended a dance at a schoolhouse, leaving Marilyn and me in the back seat of Hubert’s spanking-new 1949 black Ford sedan. He had parked it near the schoolhouse, blaring inside with the hubbub of Saturday night country music.

In spite of the loud noise, I managed, somewhat sullenly, to fall asleep, and while sleeping I urinated in my pants, the beginning of my bedwetting horror. I woke up, at Marilyn’s prodding, in wet, cold, miserable shock, immediately wanting to flee but paralyzed with a new version of shame.

Mama and Daddy were still in the schoolhouse and, feeling wretched and abandoned, I began whimpering, then crying, then bawling loudly. “Come out! I want to go home. I want to go home!”

After a long howling fit, a stretch of tears frightening Marilyn, Mama finally moseyed up to the car, Daddy and Hubert behind her, Mama dead sober and quiet, Daddy dead drunk, grinning, laughing, enjoying himself—Mama was maintaining her facade to the hilt, refraining from jumping on Daddy for his drinking when people outside the family were around.

“Mama, can we go home?” I whimpered timorously as she opened the car door.

She ignored my plea with a sudden disgusted sniffing of her nostrils. “Good God Almighty!” she recoiled, her face souring at the strong stench of urine, both in my jeans and on the back seat. “Ya pissed yer pants! All over yerself! All over Hubert’s car . . . messin’ it up. Lord have mercy! Smells like an outhouse in h’ar!”

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” said Hubert, but his eyes frowning at the urine stains on his shiny back seat covers, “It’ll be all right.”

“What’s all the dang fuss about?” Daddy laughed. “Jest a little piss. Won’t hurt nothin’. Leave him alone.”

I began washing my anger away in bedwetting.

Up until shortly before I turned five, I was healthy and bright, a rather vibrant youngster, babied by my older sisters and aunts. But with the dawn of my bedwetting, I came to be viewed as some sort of freak and the babying ceased, leaving me to fend for myself. And with that the vibrancy of my spirit began to wane. And it wasn’t just because of the bedwetting, which was mostly just humiliating. It was also because of a new psychosomatic symptom springing itself upon me, one that would mushroom into something more physically devastating. I began developing asthma.

But Daddy didn’t find out about Mama and Hubert, mainly because he was too busy with his own escapes, meaning escape from Mama. After working in the field all day, often Daddy disappeared from sight, drifting off into the sunset to make and sell moonshine. Or, if it was during the sharecropping off-season, and he wasn’t working at the sawmill, and he was cooling it on the moonshining because the authorities were too close to sniffing him out, Daddy scrambled off possum hunting or vanished on a fishing outing, his covers for relaxing, laughing, joking and boozing with his drinking buddies.

It was during these times while Daddy was away that Mama did her own disappearing act, fetching Marilyn and me, her traveling bags, and hustling us off to meet with Hubert, leaving Ruby Lee, Inez and Red—if he wasn’t off with Daddy—to occupy themselves.

As I approached five, the longer I had to keep the secret of Mama and Hubert from Daddy, the more my fear and fury boiled inside, ransacking my emotions not only to produce psychosomatic symptoms, but affecting me physiologically in other ways, pounding me into a puny, ailing, sickly, unhappy kid. Suffering this, and occupying such a hapless, helpless pecking order in the hierarchy of things, my mind, in addition to my emotions, began undergoing some warping itself. I needed a safe object on which to at least vent a fraction of my vexation. Marilyn was the safest object, but being my constant companion in the back seat of Hubert’s car, I pitied her too much to use her for this. I chose Inez, the next safest object, and we began fussing and fighting over everything. On one notable occasion we began arguing over which of us was going to cut a watermelon. I had the knife by the handle and Inez had it by the blade. “Let me have the knife,” I yelled, indignant. “I want to cut the watermelon.”

“I’m doin’ it you little twit, so let go!” Inez screeched.

“No, I’m doing it!”

“Yer not. Let go or I’m callin’ Mama!”

Suddenly I wasn’t tussling with Inez but with Mama. And with Mama in my sights I yanked the blade from Inez’s grip, slicing a deep cut in her hand. Immediately the blood gushed forth like the fast sssssshhhhhh of air out of a blown tire, a deeper red than the freckles on her face. Then realizing it as Inez, not Mama, I became aghast, stunned at my action leaving her screaming and bleeding profusely, certain that I had cut off her fingers. I hadn’t, but still I was scared senseless and feeling hideous. And Mama, enraged out of her head, looked upon me as hideous, giving me one of the worst switch whippings of my life.