Men!

Grandma tells tails of Men

A poem or story by Daniel Bailey (aka) The Danman258

 Grandma tells tails of Men.

     As I go through my grandmother's huge desk, wait a minute, why would anybody build a desk so big. What was the need and how did they get it in this small room. My grandmother was born in 1917 and because of the 1929 depression saved everything. Newspapers, pictures, old tickets, books, furniture, no matter what it was, she would save it. I guess that’s the need for the desk.

     Another thing she has, the ability to remember, her details are unbelievable. Things like the sky and the smell and even the feel of things. And her sense of direction is so on point that when we were in Oklahoma where she was born and raised but had not been there in 20 years, beat out the GPS in the rented van, every time.

     I knew my grandmother would keep those pictures. So as I went pulling all her things to a neat pile on the floor I realized there was more to this beautiful desk. The desk was beautifully, stained in a cherry oak color and black leather top, and stands at 3 ft. tall.  The length is an unbelievable 7ft and 8ft wide. It takes up half the room it sets in.

    It was hard to believe how much stuff came out of the desk. As I looked at all my piles and then I got desperate, I start pulling the drawers out, knowing in my heart the pictures were there. My friend is still alive today and if I wanted to see him I could Facebook him. But for some reason I just wanted to see and remember the way we were. My mind will not let me face or deal with the real of my past.

     I heard the sounds of my grandmother coming and I looked at my mess and realized more time had slipped by then I wanted and just sunk down into the desk chair. As she opened the door I heard her ranting of my mess, then she looked at me and softly spoke, “What in God’s name could you be looking for in my desk?” You can put a double head juke on the word my.

     I started to explain what I was looking for and started to put her things back. She said the quickest way was to ask me then reached on a shelf and pulled down a picture book that had the name Daniel printed on the front. Wow, it was big and in front of me the whole time.

     And as I took the book from her I apologized, and I think she said something like, just make sure you put everything back the way it was. So trying to put back one of the drawers something felt like it was in the way and my grandmother started to tell me to don’t worry about it she would put everything back. I insisted and we both tugged at the heavy drawer until the bottom fell out.

    My grandmother started to yell at me and told me to get out, but I just kept looking at the plastic bags that were air tight and grabbed one from the hidden drawer. They were garments, Indian garments and my grandmother was showing signs of anger that I could not understand.

    My grandmother started muttering words of we don’t need to know and nothing good will come from you knowing. And her words made me hold on to the garments even stronger and I said to her, “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but whatever it is you’re telling me now.” I started picking up more of the bags and my grandmother and I move to the other side of the tight room.

    We sat on the sofa and my grandmother started to cling to the bags as if she was holding a person softly whispering, “I keep my promises.” I’ve never seen my grandmother like this, she has always been strong and the one we all go to for strength. But now she seems lost and weak from something untold. 

    I asked my grandmother if I should call other family members, like my mother, and she said no. She went on to say that I don’t need to know and it seemed we were going backwards. Then all of a sudden my grandmother shouted, “Men!” This brought me to my mind set of my poems. I was trying to come up with ideals of men, a very consuming topic.

    My firsthand experience of being a man was so crazy that I try not to lean on it. But here my grandmother shouts out men like out of a horror story. My cell phone rings and it’s my friend saying I’m late for band rehearsal. I look at my granny and beg her to please tell me everything but I have to go.

I promise you this will be good. I’m not just stringing you along.