Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: MEMORY LANE (04/23/20)
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TITLE: Everyone Has a Story | Previous Challenge Entry
By Leola Ogle
04/30/20 -
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My mother, Hannah, was a drug addict. I’m not sure how old I was when I accepted the fact she loved drugs more than me. Life with Mom involved living in her car or the park or with some of her drug friends. I was two when Grandma took me into her home. It was she who taught me to forgive Mom, the youngest of Grandma’s six children. An ocean could be filled with the tears Grandma shed over my mother.
Grandma always said everyone has a story.
Living with Grandma was different. She talked to Jesus all day. When I was young, I kept trying to find where Jesus was hiding. He must be in the house somewhere or why would Grandma talk out loud to him? She sang Jesus songs all the time, too. Loud and off-key.
Life with Grandma meant church was our second home. When the ladies had their meeting, teenage Laura took care of the kids in another room. All of those ladies talked to Jesus, too. Loud. Really loud sometimes. I figured Jesus must not be able to hear very well.
Family was important to Grandma, so cousins were always visiting. I envied that they lived with their moms and dads when I didn’t know where Mom was. Relatives often said, “Pray for Hannah. She needs delivered.” I was ten before I realized it didn’t mean the postman was delivering Mom to the door like a package.
My most vivid memories of life with Grandma was her ministry of feeding the homeless. This is something she and her friends did every Wednesday, Saturday, and holidays. There was an empty lot near downtown where they set up tables and served food. People lined around the block for a plate of home cooking.
When I was a toddler, Grandma would spread a blanket under a serving table warning me, “Stay there, Benny.”
Some of those people were scary looking and there was no way I was leaving my spot. Some smelled bad. Really bad. If anyone pushed and shoved and argued in line, Grandma would shake a spoon and yell, “Stop it or you won’t get a meal. Ya’all better behave.”
They obeyed.
As I got older, I no longer stayed under the table. Like Grandma said, everyone has a story. George, with skin as dark as night and a smile as bright as day, was a Harvard graduate. He taught me to play checkers, then chess when I got older. He told me gambling and drugs stole his job, wife, and children. “Never go down that path, Benny,” he warned.
Grandma said Shawna, Beth, Myla, Candace, and Carla sold themselves for money. “Bless their hearts,” she’d say as a tear fell from her eye. Somehow, they bought themselves back because they showed up to every feeding. Those ladies-of-the-night watched over me with kindness. Beth read to me. Carla sang to me in a pitch-perfect voice.
Dennis told stories of his Navajo ancestors. Albert, with his red hair and freckles, taught me to ride my bike while Grandma’s group served plates of food. Randall and Billy showed me how to play baseball and football in that vacant lot. Some skills I learned from them helped me with sports in high school and college.
The people Grandma fed were some of my earliest friends. Looking back, I’m sure it looked unusual to see a child playing in a field with what some called the dregs of society. They repaid the love Grandma and her friends displayed by being respectful and protective of me.
Matthew and Timothy were bicycle policeman who helped Grandma maintain order with the volatile ones. “Some folks need to be on medication,” Grandma said while shaking her head and saying, “Help them, Jesus.”
Matthew and Timothy were my heroes on a few occasions.
Everyone’s life story wove their way into my life story, memories that I hold close to my heart.
Memories slide away as I bend to place flowers on Grandma’s grave. Across the grass, my wife, Maria and daughter Esther make their way toward me, followed by my mother. Mom was rescued from a life of destruction through Grandma’s prayers. I named my daughter Esther in memory of Grandma.
**Fiction
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