My paternal-grandmother's visits, usually ended with me going to stay with her a while. That meant separation from my beloved brother, Orien. Spending long visits with her was like being cast off on an island, by myself. A sentencing to me. There was no one to play with there. Scary nights... (details in upcoming book).
She was a high society opera singer who seemed to go to church almost daily, even at night.
She was fair-skinned, with short-cut baby-fine hair, so she visited the beauty parlor weekly to curl it. She had a double chin, thin nose with flared nostrils. Her reading glasses were a bejeweled cat shape on the outer corners. She was well endowed up-front but her dress flopped-inward behind her. She was always dressed up in perfume, pearls and fancy dresses. Lace and sequins. She wore medium heeled, pointy-toe shoes, with seem-stockings on her slender legs (remember those half stockings that women, with the seam down the back, that were worn with garters)? She had a double chin and a thin nose with flared nostrils. She never left home without her hat, lace gloves and icy-mint candies.
Yes, her fine taste led to the fine china I ate from, everyday.
Yvonne, always sent me to stay with her a while. By the time I was seven, I stayed with her long enough to attend the local school where she lived. Very distressing.
I resented having to get separated from my younger brother though. "Dorrett, come get yourself ready to go spend some time with grandmother." Said my sister.
I would arrive at grand mother's neat, two-room efficiency home. Nice looking, atop a slight hill off the side-walk. with steps leading up to its quaint little porch. She always lived in cottage-like homes. Complete with roses and other flowers adorning the sides of the veranda (porch).
It is not that grandmother, was not nice to me, it was more my separation from Orien, that saddened me, so. On my first stay with her, she made it clear to me where we stood. "Dorrett, you must call me mommy, never grandmother."
My poor appetite grew worse with those visits. Grandmother tried to take good care of me, which I was not accustomed to. Oh boy did she pour on the "Betty"sweet-cream. I remember the picture of a small girls face on the can. Still, I would've been happier with my brother, Orien.
We were off to a bad start from the first visit. When she referred to daddy(her son) as my father, I told her, "He is not my real father." (details in book). I might as well have committed suicide at that moment.
That statement earned me my first beating from her. That was an experience, I will never forget. Each lick indelibly burned into my memory, as it welted my skin. Lash after lash, the searing belt whistled (wiss-wiss!). My wails for mercy went unheeded "I am dead now!" I cried "murder!" I stumbled throughout the tiny apartment with the physical woman towering over my small frame. I was like a drunk trying to gain his stance during a ship-wreck. She was like a monster from a sci-fi, movie. My flailing arms offered no protection from the all-over strikes.
Beating a child in Jamaica, meant that the screaming child was guilty of a wrong-doing. That scouring (beating) was accepted. Afterwards, she prepared and served me a bowl of hot oatmeal (yuck). I had trouble swallowing it, because of the angry lump in my throat, that hurt. Between every gingerly spoonful, I took hiccuped sobs of breath. I was around six years old.
These are just the bones for my upcoming book. Enjoy!
Please, take a moment to tell me how you like this blog.
She was a high society opera singer who seemed to go to church almost daily, even at night.
She was fair-skinned, with short-cut baby-fine hair, so she visited the beauty parlor weekly to curl it. She had a double chin, thin nose with flared nostrils. Her reading glasses were a bejeweled cat shape on the outer corners. She was well endowed up-front but her dress flopped-inward behind her. She was always dressed up in perfume, pearls and fancy dresses. Lace and sequins. She wore medium heeled, pointy-toe shoes, with seem-stockings on her slender legs (remember those half stockings that women, with the seam down the back, that were worn with garters)? She had a double chin and a thin nose with flared nostrils. She never left home without her hat, lace gloves and icy-mint candies.
Yes, her fine taste led to the fine china I ate from, everyday.
Yvonne, always sent me to stay with her a while. By the time I was seven, I stayed with her long enough to attend the local school where she lived. Very distressing.
I resented having to get separated from my younger brother though. "Dorrett, come get yourself ready to go spend some time with grandmother." Said my sister.
I would arrive at grand mother's neat, two-room efficiency home. Nice looking, atop a slight hill off the side-walk. with steps leading up to its quaint little porch. She always lived in cottage-like homes. Complete with roses and other flowers adorning the sides of the veranda (porch).
It is not that grandmother, was not nice to me, it was more my separation from Orien, that saddened me, so. On my first stay with her, she made it clear to me where we stood. "Dorrett, you must call me mommy, never grandmother."
My poor appetite grew worse with those visits. Grandmother tried to take good care of me, which I was not accustomed to. Oh boy did she pour on the "Betty"sweet-cream. I remember the picture of a small girls face on the can. Still, I would've been happier with my brother, Orien.
We were off to a bad start from the first visit. When she referred to daddy(her son) as my father, I told her, "He is not my real father." (details in book). I might as well have committed suicide at that moment.
That statement earned me my first beating from her. That was an experience, I will never forget. Each lick indelibly burned into my memory, as it welted my skin. Lash after lash, the searing belt whistled (wiss-wiss!). My wails for mercy went unheeded "I am dead now!" I cried "murder!" I stumbled throughout the tiny apartment with the physical woman towering over my small frame. I was like a drunk trying to gain his stance during a ship-wreck. She was like a monster from a sci-fi, movie. My flailing arms offered no protection from the all-over strikes.
Beating a child in Jamaica, meant that the screaming child was guilty of a wrong-doing. That scouring (beating) was accepted. Afterwards, she prepared and served me a bowl of hot oatmeal (yuck). I had trouble swallowing it, because of the angry lump in my throat, that hurt. Between every gingerly spoonful, I took hiccuped sobs of breath. I was around six years old.
These are just the bones for my upcoming book. Enjoy!
Please, take a moment to tell me how you like this blog.
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