A book about my paternal heritages is well underway.
A book I have needed to write for many, many years. A book that is rvign to be the most difficult book U have ever tried to write because of how important it is to me, and that importance is interfering with my ability to write.
No secret that I miss him, and I am forgetting the sound of his voice.
I can see for myself that he was considered a catch, and my mother caught him, little southern vixen with the semi bowed legs, who played basketball and didn’t get that far in school, but with a man like that, what else could she need?
Children guaranteed to be beautiful, catches themselves; exactly what she needed for being ostracized as “The Little Black One” Too bad she got caught up in a need for bleaching creams, Nadinola, her favorite making her skin leathery.
My father’s father was an immigrant I never met, Caucasian, and Indian from India, “Uttar Pradesh” born in 1882, died in 1939. A builder of railroads in the south, and a farmer.
Finally my father in his favorite kitchen chair; he was already so sick… Barrel-chested, soon to die.