AT DAMDADDY'S HOUSE

All that's left of grandaddy's house is a stoop, a busted-up sidewalk, and the fig tree. In my memories I see the weathered boards and smell biscuits cooking. I hear the shrieks of my cousins as they chase each other in and out of the chicken coop, the outhouse, the ramshackle garage. I see grandaddy in his rocker on the porch. Behind him the curtains on the front window blow gently in the breeze, lightly brushing the legs of the little ones napping on the tattered comforter covering the ancient iron bed. One coughs -- the breeze has carried smoke from grandaddy's ever-present cigarette into the room.

A hulking Irishman, grandaddy's ample belly pushed his trousers down, down. His voice was gruff, his speech liberally sprinkled with profanity. His footfall could be heard throughout the house, as he shuffled from room to room, sockless in his untied shoes. His droopy eyes, smudged glasses hanging precariously from his nose, darted here and there, catching every move, every transgression. And his threat of a "whippin'" with the switch from the rosebush made us all think twice before disobeying. His demeanor belied his love of children, and I quickly learned that a shy smile, a quick hug, or a wet kiss would dissolve him like ice in lemonade on a hot day.

On Sunday afternoons, my cherished time with him, I escaped the heat of the kitchen and the low hum of conversation by the women. I escaped the clacking of the dominoes on the dining room table and the whimpers of the babies crowded into the crib. I escaped to the cooler, quieter porch, climbing onto his knee and snuggling into the folds of skin between his chest and arm. Grandaddy and I counted cars rushing by on the busy street in front of the house, arguing the fine points of scoring. Did the streetcar count more than the truck? Who got credit when Mrs. Macon backed out of the driveway directly in front of us?

When we tired of counting -- I always won -- he would draw for me. "Draw me a coffee pot," I commanded. He would groan and growl, his hand moving quickly across the back of the Sunday classifieds.

"Now draw me a cup." I shifted on his knee, watching carefully as the cup took shape.

I loved this part: "Now make the coffee go in the cup," I said broadly. I always had the same request and, mumbling profanities under his breath, he always complied. I giggled, sat tall with a smile, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, and its dampness was salty to my little mouth.

Much to the family's chagrin, every memory of grandaddy included his cursing . . . from the time I could speak, he was my "damdaddy". . . and the day he died I screamed my first profanity. I climbed the little fig tree and shook its branches as hard as I could. Hot tears stung my eyes and ran rivers down my cheeks, the salty taste lingering on my lips as I cried, "Damn, damn, damn." None of the adults corrected me -- they all felt the same way.

The first time I went back and saw that grandaddy's house had disappeared, I sat in the stifling heat of the vacuum that was my car, shouting until my throat ached, "Damn, damn, damn." My shoulders rocked as the sobs came spilling from deep within me. Tears filled my eyes, and for a moment, I could not see the void that had once been the place of my youth. How I missed that time, those easy days, that unconditional love.

But then I saw him, sitting in his timeworn rocker on the old porch, and I knew his house would always be in my memories.