First of all, you need to understand something. I am a man. A full bearded man. This doesn’t mean I can’t cry at a sad movie or feel shame for acting a fool when drunk. It just means that I don’t. Hell, I ain’t no automaton. I cried in 1968 when I had to put down my dog, Chuck, with my pistol. It was more of tearing than sobbing woman cry yet I get accused by my wife and son of being insensitive. You see, I have been having some trouble with my boy.
Jake was born in 1971. My wife Ann, who is a saint of woman, gave birth to him suddenly 8 and a half months into her pregnancy. And boy do I mean suddenly. He flew out of her faster than a mule kick. I worked for the local electric company which I still do to this day. It’s honest work and pays the bills. I did the best I could as a father. Better than my father. He was tougher than grits and knew how to use them. I can’t tell you the number of times I had warm to mildly hot grits poured down my britches as punishment. Even for the smallest infraction such as not finishing my grits or not putting enough grits on my steak. However, as he got older his drinking increased and it calmed his demeanor. I guess some men just need that liquor in their system to keep them steady. Walking to school with pants full of grits is a smooth yet embarrassing experience. I wasn’t a trouble maker but I could take care of myself and on occasion I would get into fights on the way to school with some of the local boys. When it was all over we would be covered in grits due to the fact my father had filled my pockets with them. This would absolutely baffle them. It was strange enough to keep them from challenging me too often. I thought my father didn’t know what he was talking about like all boys do at that age I remember him saying things like “BOY! You best remember that grits could one day save your hide!” Or “Grits ain’t then enemy son, things that are not grits are the enemy.” Or “That’s one small bowl of grits for a man, one giant tubs of grits for mankind.” This was usually said as he served our dinner grits.
My mother was a portly woman who cared deeply for her children. She came from a time when you supported your husband no matter what. As I got older I began questioning some of his grits based philosophy but my mother was quick to remind me that his work in the grits factory is what puts grits on the table. One time she did admit that a man in that kind of work environment is bound to have a few scars. I wouldn’t know what she meant until years later. I would ask her to explain but she would tell me to just finish my grits and not to worry about my father and he was a good man. She was right. He had served in the Army in world war 2. He didn’t talk about it ever, even when he had more than a few too many. Perhaps that was part of it.
I was a rebellious teen. My beard was starting to sprout so it was to be expected. I was listening to rock and roll and letting my hair grow over my ears. There was nothing too bad until one summer I asked to borrow his truck to haul some old furniture for the church. What I was really doing is moving about 100 beers and a few stolen bottles of booze to the lake for the weekend. Also I was getting head from a young female in my class who was known to be a bit loose with her morals. Unfortunately, I hadn’t left the driveway when he walked up. He immediately spit out his grits ripped open the car door.
“What the in the sweet name of grits is going on here he shouted as we scrambled to get ourselves together. Marci, the girl I was with ran off in horror and shame as my father grabbed me by the collar. He tore off the tarp I had covering the booze in the bed of the truck and gritted his teeth with some grits he had in his shirt pocket. He asked me where I got the booze and I told him. We drove and he made me return it to its rightful owner then we drove home. Silence the whole way. It was worse than a beating. Later that night he sat me down in the parlor and told me a story.
“When I was in the Army there were times when we had to ration carefully for the men. You see, I was part of the supply chain that tried to get hot meals to the men on the front. You can’t imagine how important it is for moral. We were away from home for years and…you miss the little things…the small comforts…Hell, unless you were there I can’t expect you to understand. You see, we were cut off in Bastogne. Surrounded by the Hun… for weeks and…” My father trailed off and stared into a memory somewhere far away and long ago. I could see the pain and sorrow behind his eyes. Those eyes which until then I had seen as the eyes of a simple grits man now seemed both beautiful and scarred with life experiences I couldn’t imagine. After a moment he spoke.
“You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours. You shouldn’t try to deceive your parents. We only want the best for you. You are going to keep fucking up. That is the nature of things but please try to remember that when you take what isn’t yours, you hurt someone else. I don’t expect you to understand but just give it a thought.” Then he stood up and slowly walked away. He never mentioned any kind of punishment and in fact never mentioned the incident again. That simple moment changed who I was. I think that was the day I understood what it was to be a man. A few years later I told him I was being shipped out to Vietnam. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and simply said “come back”. I never heard from him while I was over there. I never got a single grit from him although occasionally there would be a few in a letter from my mother but it was just grit debris from the amount of grits in the house. When I got back he gave me a firm handshake and congratulated me on “…killing a slew of those slant eyes half Jap fucks” and welcomed me home. I washed the grits off my hand looked up in the mirror. I wiped off the grits and saw a bearded man looking back. The boy who grew up in this house was gone. I rubbed some drying grits on my hands and went to have dinner with my family. I have to admit I had been yearning for months for grits casserole and the Crème de la Grits I could smell from the porch.
Listen to me. I was going to tell you about my fuckup son but I ended up doing nothing but tell you about my own self. I must be getting old. I guess my own problems as a father will have to wait. Maybe they aren’t so bad after all.
- Greg Gritman
December 1988