Square Pegs

I don’t think it comes as much surprise to the people around me that I, not only consider myself to be a square peg, but I am completely comfortable not fitting into many of the world’s holes. It has been pointed out, and I have lived my own life long enough to know that my general inability to function on a plane that is even in the same universe as most people poses some issues for my life. I also recognize and have become quite comfortable knowing that I am the cause of some of these stumbling blocks and speed bumps as a direct result of some of the personality traits I have been blessed with. And yes, I consider myself to be completely and utterly blessed to be adorned with a personality that will never be anything that anyone understands, including me.

And Jesus, does it ever keep things exciting.

So tonight, when the walls felt like they were bowing in under the weight of the heavy rain-filled sky, I called my Home. My father’s gentle wisdom, once again I was seeking. And what wisdom he has. I don’t know if it is that he is a square peg so much as it is that he raised one, but he said it with plainness and sincerity to a degree that surpasses insight to me. And what he said, I know to be true, but by experience.

“Any relationship you have will have rough edges, but I am one to believe that nothing moves forward without rough edges.”

The resonance is deafening. Everything he said, all that he knows about me and life and the world and what I will be like in this life and this world. I am an incomplete project, no denial about that, but I am a project that will remain with rough edges because I want to move forward. I am designed to move forward, and like a square peg on a table top, a little push is always necessary to get me rolling.

Love is never, ever a liar.

From The Handwritten Archives

 Five Dollars and Some Sour Grapes

I know little of my grandfather. The facts I have come to know through a lifetime of being his granddaughter could fit into a set of salt and pepper shakers. They are facts learned and acquired. They are, for the most part not memories.

Rosier Delaney Catts was a man of small, almost delicate stature. He came from DeFuniak Springs, Florida. His mother went blind. He was a Navy man who lied about his age to serve this country and make a living. He married my grandmother, a telephone operator, after an introduction through his sister who worked alongside her. He was quiet, rather, silent most of the time leaving his daughters and granddaughters to our giggling and chirping.

My grandfather made clocks, fixed radios, and collected salt and pepper shakers. He had beautiful dark hair which was always combed neatly. He had dark eyes and olive colored skin. His shoulders were slightly hunched and bore the weight of his hardships- his family, memories of the war, long years of struggle. He spent most of his time in the garage. It was clear that Grandpa could have done without affection, for all intents and purposes.

Even still, I always felt a deep sense of endearment towards him. I recognize now, in my early adulthood the weight of his love for me, too, and it comes in the form of the only two memories I have of him.

 The Dixon County Fair happened during one of our visits to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in California. My dad and my Uncle Thor planned to take the kids (myself, my sister Brooke, my cousin Katelyn and my cousins Justin and Bethany) to the fair to save us from the boredom of the sweltering summer day. We had already dusted all of grandma’s figurines which, despite the monotonous implications, was a treasured activity for the girls. We got to touch them.It was very exciting but lasted only an hour or two. “Hide the silk flowers,” another game spawned from the lack of children’s toys in the house, had lost it’s luster too. So the dad’s devised a plan to keep us occupied and announced it to my grandpa, who was likely watching television in the garage at the time. Grandpa gathered all of the kids up in the kitchen and lined us up in front of the small table against the wall. He had us all close our eyes and open our hands. This meant we were going to get something, and we knew it. I was the youngest, and probably the only one that kept my eyes shut in spite of the anticipation. I felt the paper in my hands and his rough fingers brush my palms. We opened our eyes to find a five dollar bill for each of us. Money! I had never had so much in my whole life! While Brooke, Katelyn and Bethany did the “California Raisin” dance, I ran over to hug Grandpa. He smiled. It was the only time I remember his smile. A real smile from my grandpa. It was better than the five dollars he gave me, though I wouldn’t know it for years to come and would only realize it after I examined my memories of him and uncovered the word “melancholy”. Not to mention, he ignored his disdain for affection to allow me my love for it. And he loved it at that moment too.
     Funny thing about the Dixon County Fair: I don’t remember it. The last I remember of my five dollars was when my mom tucked it away in her purse and told me when I was ready to spend it she would help me. But I remember that hug and I remember that smile like I am looking at a snapshot of the whole thing happen.

The only other time I remember my grandpa in experience and not fact came one summer. It could have been the same summer but the circumstances were different. Fighting the same boredom that necessitated a trip to the fair, Katelyn led me behind the garage on the side of the house. She found grapevines earlier and wanted me to see them. They were tangled against the fence, taller than we were. Bunches of small green grapes sagged from the vines in heavy clusters of temptation. I was suddenly, unknowingly, in my very own Garden of Eden. After a few minutes of examining this treasure before me, I reached for one. It had to be in slow motion because before I could even get my little hand above my shoulder Grandpa appeared. I didn’t hear him come around the corner. I didn’t see his shadow behind me. I didn’t know he was there until he spoke. “Don’t eat ‘em. They’re sour and they’ve got seeds.” My hand shot back like I had touched a hot stove. I thought I was in trouble (because I was always in trouble) but in fact, he spoke with a certain undertone of joviality. He disappeared as silently as he came but a kind of sweetness lingered there in the air between us, and lasted until I defiantly snatched a grape from the vine and popped it into my mouth. They were sour. They had seeds. Katelyn and I snickered about it as my lips twisted and puckered, but I felt bad that I had ruined the sweetness Grandpa had given me with the very thing he warned me about. I don’t remember any other time that he spoke. But I still remember how he spoke that one time. And how he disappeared, knowing I would eat one, to allow me room to learn it.

 I like knowing my grandpa the way I do. I want more of the facts of his life to collect. I wish I had more memories. But I know him as he pertains to me, as he loved me, as he loved the other people in my family. He may not have known me the way the rest of the family does now, but I still think he got me. He might have been the first person in my life to actually get me. Whether or not he did, makes no difference at all; He made me think that he did in a profound way. That is how I know the weight of how he loved me.

originally written January 8, 2006