The Sixites With Visitors

The day that she was supposed to have neglected me; letting me play in the dirt, while she sat under the tree drinking beer was a story told over and over. Why this was such a retold story makes me wonder if anyone is really all good. My aunt that took care of me on that visit in my eyes was a wonderful lady. It didn’t take much to win the love of a toddler. It never has ceased to amaze me how people as a rule see the bad in most everyone; before they find the good. Mama was surrounded by a bunch always looking for something wrong with what she did or said. She was more than likely someone to be envious of.
 Kick Ass CD
She was very pretty when I was a child. She was always a little too nice to men. We went to the doctor way more than necessary, because he was good looking. She took us regularly until there was no money to pay the doctor with. The southern boys that came to visit were not worth the effort for her. She really hated seeing them coming. Their visits consisted of drinking and bringing any women they could find to bring to our house. She did join in the festivities at times. She could play the piano by hear or she thought she could. I remember her banging, but really don’t remember if it was really bad; I am almost sure it wasn’t really good.
Mama wanted to make friends with the bar girls, so she joined in. It was usually late or early morning before the gang arrived at our house on Morley. The White boys were regular tourists to Michigan. Their good looks made it easy for them to pick-up girls from the bars on Ford Road. In they would come; it was hard for me not to notice if they put their hands up the young women’s blouses. This memory is one that stuck in my nosey little brain.

I have no reason to ever care a hill of beans about these guys. I seen them as bad, because Mama usually got upset with Daddy when they came and after they left. It has really not taken a whole lot for me to love, forgive and find the good in most people. I could also see the bad, but it would not take much for me to forget that; the art of forgiving will get you a very long way.  The trick I also learned at an early age. This was to tune out anything or anyone that I really did not what to hear. This has made me a poor listener today.

I had to have been like a sponge, soaking up all the grown-up business that I could. Always knowing how bad adults could be was probably why I have worried all my life. The good I gathered from them was because I found it in them myself.  I forgave and tried to forget as much as possible. Blocking bad experiences from my mind is something I wasn’t lucky enough to do.