cousins Archives - Jessica Ferguson

I feel very behind in my A to Z postings. I know I’m not, and that the feeling comes because I’m writing my posts the morning of instead of the night before. Pressure! Early on, I wrote each one the evening before but I’m reaching a point where I have to think, think, think. And then I sprint forward with great energy. That’s how I do a lot of things. That’s why I’m not a very fast fiction writer—I have to think too much and too long.

The letter J could be for any number of my family members: my grandfather John Henry, my dad Jesse, my mom Jerry, me or my cousin Jerry Lynn, or my uncle—James.

I’ve chosen James, my dad’s brother and Jerry Lynn’s dad. James was the youngest of my grandparent’s thirteen kids. You know what that means. Spare the rod, spoil the child?

James was married to my mother’s sister, Charlene. That means Jerry Lynn and his younger brother Neil were my double-first cousins. Jerry Lynn was named after my mom. Eventually, James and my Aunt Charlene divorced. I can remember going to their little house to play (just up the road from ours) and my aunt would be in bed. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. I was always fascinated by the sight of it because our house was spotless. My mom—even though she worked nights and slept days—was meticulous in every way. Remember—the perfectionist. Later on, after James and Charlene divorced, I realized she’d been depressed because she really came ‘alive’ once he was out of her life.

James was a huge part of my life.(See the pic at right.) He was probably the son that looked most like my grandfather—tall and lanky. He drank goat’s milk. Odd that I should remember that. And he was a smooth talker too. That’s what I remember most.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things—anything paper. Post cards, letters, articles from the newspaper. You name it. I’m borderline hoarder.

Even as a kid, I cut out models from catalogs and used them as paper dolls. And I loved movie stars—especially Marilyn Monroe. I thought MM was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. So when I saw a post card of her on the beach in a two piece swimsuit, I had to have it. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to write movie stars and ask for their pictures. I had a pretty good collection of them. While this post card wasn’t autographed, it made a nice addition to my movie star stash.

I showed it to my Uncle James. I vaguely remember having a “don’t want to” feeling down inside when James talked me into giving him the post card. I can’t remember what he said, how he talked me into turning it over to him. Told you he was a smooth talker. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I found my post card torn to pieces beneath a tree near my grandmother’s house. Can you imagine how I felt? Why did he do it? Since this happened before his divorce, I’ve wondered if my Aunt Charlene shredded Marilyn in a fit of anger or jealousy. One of the mysteries of my early teen years. And it seems cruel that when I think of my Uncle James, this is what I remember.

My uncle had a drinking problem and checked himself into Rusk State Hospital to avoid going to jail for a DWI. I was in my 20s then. I remember my parents asking if I’d take him a carton of cigarettes. Many years later, he died in a fire at age 56. He’d been drinking and fell asleep while smoking.

I’m sure we all have memories of this sort. We look back and see how loved ones wasted their lives and talents. Stories like this make us sad, but they can make us stronger. We just need to figure out how. Sadly, this entire family is gone: James, Charlene, Jerry Lynn and Neil. My two cousins left children behind who face their own demons and challenges.
But then, don’t we all?

Do you have any memories that fill you with sorrow? How do they make you stronger? Want to share?

Several of my friends indulge in memoir writing. I’ve given it a try too though I’m not sure I have the hang of it.

Fifteen kids were born into my dad’s family. Two died as infants. I can’t imagine having that many children and certainly don’t know why any woman would want to, but to each her own.

Not all dad’s siblings lived in our hometown, but those that did congregated at my grandparent’s house every Sunday for fried chicken, peas and corn bread, mashed potatoes, churned butter and egg custard pies—among other things. My grandma was a wonderful cook. After dinner, all the kids–no matter their age–hurried outside, yanked plums off my grandma’s bush and chunked them at each other. We had fun, and there wasn’t a squealer in the bunch if one of us got hurt. Looking back, I wonder what the adults talked about inside? Did they argue? Laugh with each other? There’s no one to ask.

My cousin Sallie and I liked to play cowboy and wild horse. Of course, I was the cowboy and galloped behind her, circling the huge cedar tree north of the house, trying my best to rope her with my imaginary rope. For some reason, I was always Jesse James. Probably because my dad was named Jesse and my uncle was James. I was fond of singing, ‘put ‘em together and they’re Jesse James.’ Silly, huh? Every now and then, that little ditty pops into my head.

I loved these get-togethers, and being with all my cousins. Sometimes the family would meet a few miles away at a roadside park and spread our food on concrete tables and benches.

To the left is my grandparents’ wedding picture. Weren’t they beautiful? Papaw (as I called him) would lift me high in the air every time I saw him. He seemed so tall. And in church, the pastor would call on him to pray and he’d kneel on one knee, beside the pew and bow his head. I love that memory.

Life as I knew it ended when my grandfather died in 1956. My mother called my school and told them to have the bus driver drop me off at my grandparent’s house. I remember seeing a wreath on the door and I knew . . . he’d been sick.

Everythingchanged. Looking back, I wonder if Grandpa demanded his family congregate on Sundays after church. Did they really want to? Was he the Jock Ewing of our family? The glue? Once he was gone, we fell apart. We dribbled into my grandma’s house sporadically.

My grandmother’s death 21 years later ended us. Completely.

I wrote a story about my dad’s family, all those wonderful quirky people that had turned on each other like wild animals. The story went through a number of titles—Grandma’s Revenge, The Day Grandma Died, All in the Family—and won an honorable mention at my very first writers’ conference in San Antonio, Texas. The story never sold but yearnedto become a novel. It never did, though every now and then I grab a pencil and paper and try to plot my family’s tale.

Are you wondering where my E-words come in? Well, sadly or maybe gladly, I’ve elaborated, embellished, expounded, enlarged, expanded my story so much and so often, that I really don’t remember what’s true and what isn’t?

When you write a life story, how much do you exaggerate?

J is for James

E is for Elaborate, Embellish, Expound, Enlarge, Expand