They Come by That Meanness Honestly

I guess dad’s drinkin’ problem stems mostly from him bein’ Irish and Indian. I can’t remember a time when dad didn’t drink. But we never thought he was an alcoholic. Hell, he got up and went to work. That’s how you measured a drunk back then. If a guy could get up and clock in . . . he wasn’t no bum. But so much of dad’s meager check went for booze. We suffered alot especially at the end of the month when he had to decide between food and his 6 packs. Somehow, there was always money for beer. It was a daily thing . . . dad goin’ out. Grampa was a big drinker too. Whiskey was his choice. Him and his brothers and cousins would head out to the Shawnee National Forest. They’d be out there camped for weeks. They’d hunt alittle but mostly they’d play poker, drink and fight. Once grampa and Willard went round and round. They were wrasslin’, fallin’ down in the creek, mad and drunk and crazy, and first thing you know . . . there’s a knife and grampa’s ear is nearly sliced off. But his dad was a country doctor . . . just sewed it back on. When we combed grampa’s hair . . . we saw the scars. He’d gotten his scalp cut so bad once . . . the whole top of his head just flapped up like the open lid on a tin can of beans. You could see the stitches all the way around his forehead. We liked grampa’s face . . . scars and all. He looked so much like an Indian . . . his tomahawk nose . . . his thick hair . . . his dark eyes. His mom was a full blooded real Indian. They argue over what kind but probably Cherokee. Although my aunt Maudie always hoops and hollers and then throws her head back and yells, “Apache . . . god damn it . . . blood thirsty Apache.”