Back in the early 70s, my family used to pile into a beige, barge-like Pontiac station wagon and make our way from Chesapeake, Virginia to my Grandmother’s house in Greenville, South Carolina, some eight hours away. Five of us use make the trek: Mom and Dad in the front and me, my sister Gena and brother, Mike having full command of the rest of the vehicle as long as I didn’t look at, touch, or breathe near my sister. On one trip Gena actually asked my mother to “make Greg stop breathing.” Brotherly love at its worst.
Trips to visit Nana’s (my grandmother on my mother’s side) were, for the most part, happy family affairs full of southern fried chicken, scary visits to the basement to retrieve something for my grandfather, and slobbery kisses from three ladies who I remember as being known as the “Anties.” One of the “anties” had one leg shorter than the other that was corrected partially by a clunky black shoe with a four-inch sole. I still have nightmares of her limping my way with open arms and saying “give me some sugar, sweetie.”
One night at Nana’s stands out particularly over forty years later, I was maybe ten or eleven and was sitting on living room floor under the watchful and creepy eye of a mounted deer head that my grandfather shot. It was early evening, and the house smelled like most grandmothers’ houses: a unique combination of baby powder and decaying furniture with just a hint of bacon grease from morning breakfast. My grandfather sat in his leather recliner that farted with the slightest move while Nana roamed between bedroom, hall way and living room. I don’t recall where the rest of the family was, perhaps fleeing from the slobbery kisses of the aforementioned “Anties.” My grandfather was making small talk and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I replied “archeologist.” Praise and interest from my grandfather was quickly shot down by negative comments from Nana that ranged from it was a dirty job, to I would be forced to live in remote villages, and I would never make a “decent living.”
Wow.
I felt deflated but was taught not to speak back to elders. I didn’t plead my case to dig in the dirt and explore the world. To pursue a “decent living” not measured by money but by passion. What would have happened if I spoke up and defended this boyhood dream? I chose to remain silent. I chose to take her ‘advice.” From that moment on, thoughts of becoming an archeologist were buried, so to speak. Even today, I’m envious of love reading stories in National Geographic about how people are discovering lost treasures but am more envious of the writers rather than the “diggers.” But then again, writing takes a lot of digging and exploration. Maybe that archeologist is still inside me, but today my tools are imagination and a keyboard rather than a trowel and a soil sifter. One thing I did learn from that fateful, one sided living room conversation in Greenville, South Carolina is to be careful what you say around children especially if talks turns to dreams, goals or passions. A quick, thoughtless remark can and does lasting effects. In short, chose your words wisely.
